Bulletproof
by Locked Up
Summary: Sometimes parental approval is overrated, especially when the parent in question solves problems with a right hook and a bottle of vodka. Sometimes the only thing left to do is get a tattoo, put on your tightest pants, and run away to the New World with your dumb bestie-cum-boyfriend (even though you told him not to come, dammit) Fr/punk!UK...slash. *Companion-ish to Oblivious*
1. Not What the Normal Kids Do

_I'm BAAAACK! Merry Christmas, my pretties! Here I bring to you a brand new shiny fic with lots of fun and happiness and stuff. And angst, but we'll get to that later. _

_This is sort of a companion to Oblivious, although it isn't necessary for you to have read that before this. And, all you lovely people, this one will be FrUK. As in Arthur and Francis, and their whole relationship before the events of the aforementioned Russia x America story started. I had some people who were a little perturbed by how I didn't really delve into or finish the auxiliary relationships in Oblivious so that's what I'm going to start doing now :D Fun!_

_This will be filled with slash. Which, as I'm sure you're aware, means it will be gay. Very gay. If this does not tickle your fancy I suggest you go read something more straight. Like Twilight._

_Enjoy!_

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><p>The first time I ever kissed that idiot was when we were both twelve.<p>

It was, coincidentally, the same day I heard the word "fairy" used in any context other than that of magical flying creatures. Now, I know what you're thinking, but it really was a coincidence. You see, it happened on a train.

Francis was the son of a friend my father had met through work, a stuck-up boy with absolutely no regard for the fact that he wasn't the only person in the room. He was more pompous than I was, more elegant than I was and he cared more than I did. He cared about things, deeply, and he would work for them until he dropped. Or got mud on something. I was more the "stay-away-from-me" variety. I entered the world of teenagerdom a bit early. And yet, somehow, we became friends.

It was a bit of trip to go see him, what with the fact that he lived in Paris and I in London. He had sometimes made jokes that if we were to ever get friends from other countries they'd have to be from only capital cities. I thought it was a bit of lame joke but I didn't say anything.

Fine, that's a lie. I told him he was an idiot.

Anyway, we had just left the station, the sleek train just beginning to pick up speed. My family was wealthy enough so father always had us ride in the business class. It was always really quiet, and though I'd made this trip countless times since I was little it was still a bit unnerving. All those people in suits and dresses just sitting there, some reading, some just looking out the window at the scenery that would soon vanish, some typing away on laptop computers, they were all silent. I'd always automatically assumed that it was my place to be quiet as well, sitting like the good little son of a businessman, my button-down shirt itchy and black pants too restricting.

I had a piece of paper in my pocket, a letter Francis had sent me about a week before. It was kind of funny; we'd made this decision after first becoming friends, that all of our correspondence would be through traditional means. Letters. Telephone. Sending things through the post took forever and was far much more work than the internet or texting but that was what we'd found so attractive about it. It had, in all honesty, been Francis' idea. He said that when it took so much work and time to send a letter one would be much more eager to truly think through what they were saying. I had agreed.

His writing was always so articulate, though a bit abstract, and often he'd go off on endless tangents revolving around one metaphor. I always thought he should become a poet, if only so he wouldn't spew his fantasy idealist crap into our letters. He said if he ever wrote poetry it would be about me. I'm not really sure why, but I said the same.

That was when we were both eleven, though his birthday was before mine. I sent him a card and a box of chocolates, with a disclaimer about the fact that the only box I could find was red and heart-shaped. He didn't comment besides a thank you and a promise that he would reciprocate for my birthday.

In retrospect, it was really the little things that started it off.

Father cleared his throat, turning the page of the newspaper he'd brought along to read. I peered over from my seat by the window that he'd told me to close. I always sat on the inside, so he could get up easily if the need arose. His eyes ran over the page, and then he made a small noise of derision.

"Damn fairies," he muttered, eyes scanning over an article near the top. I leaned over, instantly interested. I'd always loved the mystical, magic and whatnot, so as the word left his lips my ears perked.

"Huh?" I prompted, hoping he'd explain. I didn't see anything that would lead him to say something like that.

He immediately hopped on the teaching opportunity, jabbing a large finger into the paper toward the top. My eyes followed, reading the headline. It said something about _Civil Unions _and I didn't know what those were. Italicized toward the beginning of the article were the words _Civil Partnership Act_. I looked up to my father for clarification.

"Now _this_," he started, furrowing the thick eyebrows I had inherited, "is why the government is falling apart. Letting all this get through and up to the high boys and then they pass it. Take a good look, 'cause this is what you'll be dealing with in the future."

His words flew over my head and away. I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. "What do you mean?" I asked, honestly curious.

"Queers," he said again, stressing the word. "Homos." And I understood, my mouth forming a small "o."

_Gay_ people.

They were, honestly, something I never thought about. I never had reason to. I didn't think about straight people either, not really. I didn't think much about anything except school and if Francis had sent a letter and writing that movie my friends and I were going to make. What was for breakfast. Whether I'd be allowed to go into town, or whether I'd be going with my father on another business trip like this one. _Those_ were the things I thought about, and I had no idea why my father was getting so worked up over something so inconsequential to me.

"What about them?" I asked.

My father's face became very serious. "It's not right," he intoned quietly. "They're going to hell and trying to drag us all with 'em."

Now, we weren't very religious. I couldn't remember ever going to church except on things like Easter or other holidays like that, and my parents didn't talk much about any kind of family faith. So when my father told me something was a sin, that's what it was. He didn't throw around words like that.

I sat back in my seat, sneaking a bit of the window open so I could look out as my father turned the page. I hadn't brought a book or game to entertain myself; it was a bit short-sighted of me. I could still see some sunlight, telling me we hadn't even left England yet. It would be a long ride, and all I had to do was turn my father's words around in my head. I mean, it was no problem to me. I didn't particularly plan on being gay; a fairy, as my father had said.

The entire future for me was a bit of a blur. I'd always had those vague notions that I would get married and have children. I'd get some job (though I had no clue what) and then retire and sometime in the way distant future I'd die and have a nice funeral. My life in a nutshell. Maybe Francis and I would still be friends...no, that was something I counted on. No ambiguity there.

The tiny line of light from my window suddenly darkened, a bit yellowish orange now. We were heading into the tunnel. I tapped my father's wrist a little and he didn't even look up, twisting it just a little so I could see his watch if I turned my head. It hadn't even been an hour yet.

So I took out the only thing I had to entertain myself, Francis' latest letter. I'd read it about ten times, but I found some kind of calm when my eyes ran over the small, sharp script. Whether or not I actually focused on the words or just how they were formed I could read these over and over. Fleetingly I wondered if Francis did the same with mine.

_Dear Arthur,_

_I hope you are well. It is dreadfully boring here, and I cannot wait until we see each other again. I have heard from my father that you will be coming back soon, so I'm very excited. I have many things to show you._

The letter went on, detailing all of Francis' exploits over the past few weeks. It had been maybe a month and a half, perhaps two, since we'd last seen each other. It was almost funny how trivial all my life at home was when given the prospect of seeing Francis. It felt like I was going back to my real friend…not that he and I were particularly friendly, of course.

Oh, whatever. I suppose it's too late for that. So yes, Francis was my best friend. That didn't change the fact that he was an idiot, though.

He had signed the letter at the bottom, in the same place he always did. His writing changed abruptly, from the quick words he scrawled tightly (but somehow they were so neat) to his signature. It was loopy and swirled around like he'd practiced calligraphy. _François Bonnefoy._

I leaned back a bit awkwardly as I reached into my pocket. I carried a ballpoint pen with me most of the time, a habit taken from my father. Then I clicked it out, setting the tip down just above the paper underneath my friend's swirly signature. As slowly as possible I began to write my own signature, hoping to make it as much like his as possible. It turned out shaky and a little uneven, and nothing like the smooth, twirling letters. I supposed that I was overthinking this. That revelation, however, did not stop me from trying again, to no avail.

I peered out the sliver of window, watching the burst and instant retreat of the orange lights. My father made a choked noise, and my head jerked to the side. He was asleep, the newspaper folded over and still half open on his lap. I carefully snuck it away, glancing around at the silent and motionless passengers.

I looked over the open page for a moment before turning back. My father's earlier explanation had not been sufficient, and I wanted to know more. So I propped the page open in my lap and scanned, searching first for an article I could tell my father I was reading lest he wake up and ask.

And then I read. It was a fairly light article, easy to follow and short. And at the end I had to wonder why my father cared so much about this. A little picture caption in the middle of the article showed a couple, two women, smiling into the camera and embracing each other. One had her hair up in a ponytail, the other wore a knit hat.

I glanced over at my father, who was still sound asleep. Then my eyes ran over the picture once more. _Bad, _I thought, _This is bad._ But somehow I couldn't believe it.

But, of course, this was that moment in my life during which my father was the highest royalty. At the tender age of just-turned-twelve I was smaller than usual and always locked inside my head. My father was belligerent and hard-nosed, like some of those kids at school, and for some reason that's what I really wanted to be. Maybe I'd talk to Francis about it later.

Eventually I put down the newspaper and opened the window all the way, so I could see into the tunnel. The small, soft-cornered rectangle of glass showed nothing but orangish light and dark walls. And thus the train ride went.

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><p>I found that as we approached the large hotel my smile grew and grew, and from the windows of the car I could see the people walking down the street and stopping in restaurants and whatever they did during the day. I quizzed myself, trying to read all the signs that passed. We studied some French in school but hardly anybody learned.<p>

I'd been feeling kind of bad about the fact that Francis spoke such perfect English and I only knew a little French. So I had been trying, though this guilt was fairly recent and I hadn't had much time to work on it. I knew a few stock phrases here and there, and from my father I'd learned some simple sentences. I couldn't play with words or go off on wild tangents, and I definitely couldn't converse.

But I was trying, and I was sure that Francis would appreciate that. Because, like I said before, he _cared_ about those things.

"_Bonjour,"_ I murmured to myself, my excitement building as I began to recognize some of the restaurants and street names. I always felt like this when going to see Francis. Like I would burst with anticipation if I didn't see him soon. I supposed it was a sign of our friendship. _"Ça va?"_

"_Ça va bien,"_ my father answered and I jumped, not expecting his voice. He winked at me. "We're almost there," he continued, "Look out your window."

And there it was. A fairly nondescript stone building, the hotel that stretched up four or five stories. Meetings here usually lasted a day or two, and I knew from the pack my father had told me to make up that we'd be here for a while. I didn't mind, not as long as Francis was there to keep me company. In fact, it'd be better than if I were at home.

The car finally stopped and just as the key turned in the ignition I was up and out. My father started to say something to me but I inadvertently slammed the door on him. I'd probably have to apologize to him, or find Francis quickly. I'd prefer to do the latter.

I opened the large doors, head darting around as I looked for any glimpse of that long blond hair. The lobby was most empty, the clerk smiling passively. That's what the French did, I'd found. They smiled passively and thanked you and then they raised an eyebrow as you walked away. Unless the French person was Francis, because in that case they smirked at you and told you how exactly you had been so sadly mistaken. In his pompous accent and his pompous hair and his pompous little boots.

Speaking of which, I needed to find him.

My stomach was twisting in anticipation, eyebrows knitting as I started down the hallway that led to the ballroom where they held the meetings. It didn't take me long to find him, though. Or maybe it was more that he found me.

"Wrong way, _Anglais_."

I stopped in my tracks, whirling around. And there he was, smirking at me in that pompous way, hands in his perfectly ironed pockets and hair pulled into a ponytail. It seemed like every time I saw him he got taller, and now he was probably an inch or so taller than I was.

"That rhymed," I commented, raising a single eyebrow. He did the same.

"If you move that too much it will crawl off your face," he said in return, gesturing to the brow.

For a moment I didn't say anything, and then I strode forward. He did the same and we met in the middle in a tight hug. He may have been tall but his body was so slight and it felt like I could crack him in half. When we pulled back he quickly used the opportunity and my lowered guard to smack me on the side of the head.

"Hey," I warned, batting his hand away. He shrugged.

"It's been too long since I last abused you," he explained nonchalantly. I rolled my eyes but smiled.

"It's good to see you," I said after a moment and the fiery look in Francis's eyes waned.

"Likewise," he responded.

"So where are you staying?" I asked, referring to the room in the hotel in which he and his father would be sleeping. Francis waved his hand about vaguely.

"I do not know. Nor do I care," he said loftily. "My life is but a petal on the wind, flying through space with not a worry."

"Lovely," I said, clapping slowly. "Excellent performance. Now what's the room number?"

"You are so stiff," he reprimanded. "I am going to be an _acteur."_

"If you mean by playing upper-crust holier-than-thou frogs then I don't think that counts for acting."

Francis wrinkled his nose but it was all playful. "Come with me. There is nobody in the courtyard, and if you read my letter I have things to show you."

"And I have things to talk with you about," I agreed. Then my father's head appeared from around the corner and a look of relief crossed his face.

"Arthur," he acknowledged happily. "I see you boys are catching up. I'll be in the conference room."

"We'll be around," I answered. Francis then grasped my wrist and started to lead me away.

The walls and floor were all different shades of white and red, making them seem even smaller and narrower than they really were. Francis seemed to think that I wouldn't be able to find my own way into the back courtyard, the small tiled area with the big tree in the only patch of real ground for who-knew-how-long. I'd been there plenty of times during my exploration of this hotel, so it was really more amusing than anything how quickly Francis seemed to want to get there.

"Your father is being very nice," Francis commented passively, a sharp contrast to how hurriedly he was rushing me through the halls.

"Yeah. He's been doing that lately," I said, shrugging. It was true. My father had been especially friendly with me the past few weeks. It seemed as though before he'd taken more to ignoring me but as I grew older his interest in me peaked. He'd been asking me more about how school was or if I'd been making good grades in science or if I wanted to go help him do something because I was "becoming an adult."

"I still swim in sweet obscurity with my father," Francis said as we opened the large wooden doors.

"Poetic."

"I try."

And then they were in the stone-laid courtyard, with the big tree. A bench sat by one of the tall walls, and Francis held up a finger.

"I have something for you," he said, "For your birthday."

Oh, that was right. We'd been apart for my twelfth birthday, and while I'd sent him his present through the post he had not. My smile grew as he crouched behind the tree, extracting a decent-sized box wrapped in tissue paper. He then brought it over to me, blue eyes sparkling.

"_Bon anniversaire,"_ he said with a smile. "Belated," he added.

"_Merci,"_ I mumbled almost inaudibly.

"Hm?" he asked lightly, raising his eyebrows inquisitively. I chickened out.

"M—thank you," I said, hurriedly taking the box.

We sat down on the bench, I with the present in my lap, and Francis watched me carefully. It looked fairly nonchalant but I knew him well enough to see he was really fairly anxious.

So I carefully pulled off the string and laid it in a neat pile next to me. Then I looked at him, trying to hide my smirk. My fingers reached the tape ever-so-slowly, making sure not to rip the delicate paper. He huffed impatiently, realizing what I was doing.

"I can just take it back," he warned, eyes trained on my hands as they undid the wrapping paper as slowly as I could.

"You can, but would you?" I challenged, finally starting to open up the paper to reveal the box inside. It was the kind of box one got at clothing stores, and judging by its flatness and squishiness that's what it was. I decided to forego the slow motion unwrapping.

I pulled out the cloth bundle, letting it fall open as I held it in front of me. It was a shirt, and I swear to all that is holy the eye roll was an instinct that I could not control.

_Vive la France!_ It proclaimed in swirly letters, color patterned on the flag. Francis burst into snickers, covering his mouth with one hand. I sighed sharply, folding the shirt on my lap and setting it back in the box.

"Why _thank you,"_ I drawled. "I was in desperate need of kindling."

"Aw," Francis pouted. "I think it would be cute."

"As that is my one goal," I responded dryly.

"If you put it on I'll give you your real present," he said, picking the shirt back up and putting it to my chest. I wrinkled my nose.

"I think I'll be okay," I said as I took the shirt from him with just my finger and thumb.

"Please?" he asked with those puppy-dog eyes, big and an irritating shade of blue.

"Oh dear God," I muttered, snapping the shirt out flat in the air in front of me. "If it'll get you to shut up." Then, still storming, I started to undress, unbuttoning the itchy shirt and worming my way out of it. Francis held a hand to his eyes.

"It's not like you haven't seen this before," I said sarcastically. Honestly, sometimes he acted just like a girl. Either way he took down his hand and placed it in his lap.

I pulled on the t-shirt, feeling as it mussed up my hair. It wasn't like I didn't look like a mess anyway, though. I felt disgusting already, wearing the cheesy souvenir shirt. Francis collapsed into laughter again.

"You still look just as English," he added with pleasure.

"I probably look like twice the tourist now," I conceded, glowering at him. Francis glanced down at the shirt again, giggling some more. Then, from somewhere behind him, he produced a tiny box. It had a light velvet coating, a jewelry box. He offered it to me and his smile was lighter now. Sincere. I tried to look skeptical but took the box anyway.

"As promised," he said, a tiny hint of mirth still coloring his voice. I flicked open the box, not expecting much past some other France-themed merchandise.

Instead there sat a shiny silver necklace. It was a cross, a finely decorated one with an axis of rose. I just stared at it for a moment, mouth parted slightly. It had to have been wildly expensive and I wasn't sure I liked the idea of Francis spending so much on a present for me.

I pulled it from the card in which it was set, still in a little bit of disbelief as Francis began speaking. "Well, I had no idea what to get you, and I decided that the normal presents would not apply," he said, crossing his arms and leaning back daintily on the bench. He really was a girl. "Then I found _this_, and figured it would have to do."

"This must have cost…" I didn't knew what kind of price would be correct and simply trailed off. He didn't fill in a number for me. I was still very surprised.

"So you like it?" he asked lightly. I turned the necklace over in my hand, nodding. My eyes caught the back, and I had to lean in close to see. A tiny engraving of a fairy was carved into the back, a detailed pattern of tiny dots in the metal.

Fairies.

Right.

I grasped the necklace in my fist, not sure how to approach the subject. "So…erm…yes, I like it. A lot. But I was just wondering if I could ask you something." I spoke slowly, calculatedly. Francis looked at me in question.

"But of course."

"Right." I took a breath. "So we were on the train here and my father was reading the paper…and there was this thing about…erm…" I searched for the proper word. "…_gay_ people." Francis' interest was piqued at the words, and he leaned in a bit closer to listen. I shifted a little in my seat before continuing. "And he was talking about how bad it was…like, morally. Going to hell and stuff like that." I shrugged. "And I was just wondering what you thought about…about that."

There was a moment before Francis started to chuckle. "Ah, Arthur. You cannot believe every word your father says. All respect intended, but he is not always right."

"So you don't think it's…erm…you know?"

"_Non,_" he hummed, and it almost seemed as though he leaned closer. "Why on Earth would it be wrong?"

"I don't know," I said, shrugging. I wasn't surprised by Francis' answer; if anything it had been the most anticipated one. "I just…never mind."

"Do you think you are gay?"

I choked on my own spit, coughing for a moment. Francis laughed lightly, patting me on the back. I blinked up at him, not sure how to respond to that. "It was just…I don't know. It's not something I _ponder."_

"There are ways to tell, you know," Francis said.

"I know," I defended. "But…erm…that's a ways off."

"Easier ways," he corrected. "Have you ever kissed a girl?"

I furrowed my eyebrows. "I don't think so," I said, searching through my memory. Granted, there were only twelve years to go through, but it was still a bit of work when I could remember the first four or so of them. "No." A beat. "Have you?"

Francis shrugged noncommittally. "You could always compare. Kiss a boy and kiss a girl," he said, "Your father does not have to know."

I wasn't sure I liked the sound of that. "If he does I'd be in trouble."

"And?"

I didn't have an answer to that. What would come of it? And how would he find out? "But I don't have anything to compare with."

"We can find you a girl. It would be easy."

"A boy would be harder to find," I said, trying to worm my way out of this increasingly uncomfortable situation. It sounded like some sitcom plot and I wasn't too eager to see how it would end up.

Francis cocked a single eyebrow. He was very good at that. "I am a boy."

Immediately my eyes widened and I leaned away unconsciously. "That's just strange."

"It would not be a big deal if you do not make it one," he said smoothly. "How will you ever know?"

"I…I guess I just will. And I don't even think I will be." I looked away, twirling the necklace in my fingers. "I don't know anyone who likes men like that."

"You do not have to if you do not want to," Francis said, leaning back himself. "It was just a suggestion."

"This isn't particularly normal," I said, scratching my arm. Then I opened my mouth as if to speak again but didn't have anything to say. "Do…?" but then I stopped. This was all so awkward and I knew for a fact that this wasn't what other boys talked about with their friends. But now I couldn't help the growing curiosity in the back of my mind. I hadn't kissed anyone, let alone a girl, and now it was just being offered to me. From a friend I trusted, no less. If I didn't do this now, my pre-adolescent brain reasoned, who knew when I ever would?

But it was _Francis_, the other half of my mind argued. And he was…well, he was _Francis._ With his snooty comments and superiority and long hair and sparkly eyes and delicate features.

Hell, he was enough of a girl.

"Do…?" he repeated, prompting me to continue. I took a breath.

"Do you…want to?" I asked, trying to imagine it from his point of view. Why in the world would he want to do something like this with _me_ of all people? I wasn't exactly Mr. Swimsuit and I certainly wasn't interested in the wide world of dating and relationships. Sure, I'd had a crush. Once. Maybe. But it was really more of an admiration than a romantic desire. I just couldn't see where he was coming from.

He examined me for a moment before answering, and his answer took me so off guard I didn't even know what to do. "Yes. Yes, I would."

I glanced away, thinking to myself again that this wasn't what the average boy my age was doing with his time. And maybe that meant something. "Okay," I said, letting out a breath I hadn't even realized I'd been holding. His eyes lit up and I shifted again, a little awkwardly.

"Really?"

"Erm…" I cleared my throat. "Yes. Really."

And then Francis put his hand on my knee and started to lean in and I guess I did too and I suppose I really wasn't ready for this because my heart started pounding and I realized what was going to happen but I couldn't stop it and I guess I didn't really want to stop it anyway and all I could think was how he was getting closer and closer and there he was and my eyes were starting to flutter closed because I guess that's what you did and my face felt hot and I knew I was blushing and then suddenly I felt his lips touch mine.

It was a peculiar feeling, completely foreign but not exactly unpleasant. We stayed that way for a moment, just testing and waiting and trying to figure out whether or not we actually enjoyed it. I was still all disorganized inside, shocked that we had actually gone through with this and deciding that it wasn't really that bad. His lips were soft and somehow I realized that the pressure between us had increased just ever-so-slightly.

His hand started to worm its way into mine and for a moment I thought he was going to try and hold it but instead it was gone a moment later. I cracked an eye open and felt fingers by my jaw. There was a moment that they stopped just past the nape of my neck and suddenly he pulled back. My hand flew up and I felt the necklace, safely latched in place.

"Happy birthday," he said, watching me. I swallowed, searching for the proper words for the situation. "Did that help?"

I shrugged. "I dunno." My head was still swimming in thought after thought, of how this wasn't normal and how _normal_ would have been us playing catch or some game thing or anything but…_anything _but what we'd just done. But, you know, it wasn't all bad, I guessed. I didn't particularly enjoy doing those things and this was just…I didn't know. It just was. I had no idea what I was thinking anymore. "It helped a little, I guess," I said without certainty, hand still playing with the cross on my necklace.

I suppose that was the point at which I started my teenage rebellion. It would be the first time I really lied to my father, though it would certainly not be the last. This one fleeting moment became a turning point; it was a moment I knew would change things.

I was twelve years old when I first kissed that idiot Francis.

Or, maybe, it was more that he kissed me.

…twit.

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><p><em>Ba-da-bing!<em>

_Review? And if you can point out any typos I'll make you the Chancellor of Asia when I take over the world._


	2. Kiss the Girl

_Hey! I'm sorry this took me so long but I've started some other things (like an original story, for once) and I haven't had much time for this. Or maybe I have and I'm just a procrastinator. Both equally likely._

_Enjoy!_

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><p>Now, don't get me wrong. It wasn't like our preteen selves kissed once and from there it was history. It left our minds as quickly as it had come, and we became more interested in playing cards or pretending to be spies than our undying love for each other. Because that didn't exist. Sure, we would probably say we had a friend-type love, but only if pressed. And even then that's all it was. Friends.<p>

"I think we should sneak into the meeting," Francis suggested after a particularly dull game of poker, with bits of notebook paper as chips. "We'll have to learn all this anyway."

"I thought you were going to be an actor," I said. Francis wrinkled his nose.

"Of course I'll be," he responded. "But _you_ might need to know it, and I'm bored out of my _mind."_

"The meeting won't be any more interesting," I said, sighing. "And sneaking around is for kids."

"Then let us be kids," Francis said, flashing his award-winning smile. I rolled my eyes, knowing he would get his way in the end.

And so that's what brought us to the door of the meeting hall, Francis whispering direction after direction as I pressed my eye to the crack between the double doors. The cool breeze that always seems to be present in barely-open doors kept making my eyes water. Francis' instructions and orders did not let up.

"Can you see them? What are they doing? Get closer. No, not that kind of closer. Make sure they can't see you. No, don't rub your eye. Go back. Get up higher, higher, not that high! Down. Not so far—_Mon Dieu_ are you _hopeless!_"

I shot back, glaring at him. "Then you do it!"

He sighed loftily, crouching down with what I swear was a flounce and daintily looking through the crack. I scooted back to the other wall, watching as he flinched away. I could almost feel the cool air hitting his eye.

"Not so easy, huh?" I asked with a smirk. He held up his finger to quiet me and then looked through the crack again. This time he was far more cautious.

"It is…" he trailed off, concentrating. I watched him shift around, trying to get a better look, before I spoke.

"All you can see is the radiator, right? And the wall."

But he was unfettered. He pressed his ear to the crack, squinting one eye and listening. After a moment he sat back, digging his nails into the plush carpet.

"I say we knock," I offered.

Francis seemed to think for a second before shaking his head. "No need. It would be boring anyway."

He stood, brushing off the seat of his pants even though these carpets were clean. Then, beckoning to me, he turned and started down the hallway. I watched him for just a moment before standing myself. I went to the door, raising my fist. Then, trying to muster up a great deal of authority, I rapped my knuckles three times on the wood.

There was a moment before I heard a click and the door opened. Francis stopped in the hallway, looking back. A man I'd only seen vaguely before stood in the doorway. Then he turned back. "John, it's your son."

"Well, let 'im in!"

Francis watched me as I winked at him, and then I smiled at the man and thanked him for letting me into the meeting room. I may or may not have twiddled my fingers in a mocking wave. But really, there were only a few times I actually got the better of that French idiot. I wanted to savor the moment.

I stepped inside, a bit disappointed at how it was even more unspectacular than I'd expected. A carpeted room with bleak beige walls held one large table and maybe eight men all in suits. My father had taken off his jacket and you could see his round stomach through the shirt. Francis' father was also there, a man much taller than my father and like a brunet clone of his son. Maybe his nose was a little sharper.

"Come, sit," my father said, beckoning me over with his hand. Nobody really paid much attention to me as I sat where my father directed me. Then a man I'd seen before but didn't know stood, clearing his throat. My distraction was over.

They started speaking in French, and for some reason that was completely unexpected. I'd always known my father knew a lot of French, and that most of the meetings took place in France, but I suppose I'd never put two and two together. I only understood a word here and there, so I quickly became bored. I wondered what Francis was doing, and if he was having a better time than I was. Probably.

Then my father started speaking, and it was so strange to hear him babble on in a language I was only familiar with. It was the last interesting thing that happened before they conveniently decided to break for an hour. The room was stuffy and didn't even feel like there should be important dealings going on.

I stepped out with the others, after telling my father that yes, it was very interesting and yes, I understood enough. I didn't usually lie this much.

I found Francis just outside the door, arms crossed and a smirk on his face.

"I take it that was _enthralling,_" he drawled.

"It was," I defended, but I could tell he didn't buy it. I didn't buy it either. "What did you do that was so much more interesting?"

"I went for a walk," he said haughtily. "Across town."

"You _left?"_

"You see? And nobody noticed. I don't even think the doorman noticed."

I searched as quickly as possible for some kind of witty retort. He always seemed to have one for me and I wanted to return the favor. "On screen you'll be absolutely irresistible, then, won't you? If they don't even notice you now."

Francis' eyes narrowed. "You know, if you start being nice to me I'll convince them to let you be an extra."

"Oh, I wouldn't want to take your role."

Francis opened his mouth as though about to shoot something right back but then stopped. He watched me for a second, and I realized that he probably didn't have anything to say. I smiled, shrugging.

"How about those cards?" I suggested. Francis sighed dramatically.

"You're impossible."

"You're just saying that because you'll lose."

"Oh, is it even _possible_ for us to have an intelligent conversation?"

"Yep, you'll lose."

* * *

><p>And somehow I got dragged outside as the meeting started back up. Francis convinced me that he had a reason for walking around, that it wouldn't be just an idle stroll. I was mostly worried about my father finding out and losing the little shred of respect he seemed to have for me.<p>

"You worry too much," Francis said.

I guess I did. But that was entirely beside the point. Because soon we were walking down the street and I was unsure whether I actually wanted to be going wherever Francis was taking me or not. He said it was important, and he'd tell me when we got there. I took that to mean that he thought I wouldn't want to if I knew.

We turned some corners and after what seemed like no time at all we were "there." It was, to my complete surprise, a ballet studio. I could tell immediately, even without speaking French, from the sign with a pair of toe shoes on the side. I looked to Francis in confusion, and he was smiling like he'd just won the lottery.

"Here we are," he said, gesturing toward the doors. "There is a class going on right now."

"Why?" I asked, completely bewildered.

He sighed exasperatedly. "For your test. It is more than likely that all of the people inside are girls, and that they are our age."

I blinked before understanding. I gave him a look of incredulity, not even able to comprehend this new level of stupidity.

"So…so you honestly think that I could walk in there and just get some girl to kiss me?" I asked. He shrugged.

"You never know."

"I _do_ know, and what I _do _know is that it won't work."

"Come on," Francis said, probably trying to be encouraging. "Have some fun once in a while."

"I'm not going in there," I said matter-of-factly. Francis arched one eyebrow, grabbing my wrist.

"You are."

"We're probably not even allowed inside," I reasoned. Francis pointed to some loopy script just below the main sign.

"Do you know what that says?"

I looked at it for a second, trying to figure out the words in my head. Maybe to show him that yes, I did know what the sign said. But I just couldn't. I nodded halfheartedly before changing and shaking my head quickly.

"It says 'Everyone is welcome,'" he told me, shaking my wrist a little. "That means us too."

"I don't think that's what it's referring to," I disagreed, but Francis wasn't listening. He pulled me forward, and as he pushed through the doors I became more than a little anxious.

I tried to get him to release my hand, but it was to no avail. The glass doors closed behind us with a whoosh, and we were inside a main parlor. It was quiet and seemed darker than outside. It was fairly small and a few women and a man were sitting in chairs. They all had magazines and books and didn't look up when we came in. My stomach was more than a bit unsettled. Not only were we out of the hotel but now we were just walking into some random ballet class. Judging from the kind of people in the outer room Francis had been right. It was for the younger set.

"We shouldn't be here," I whispered to him, hoping for some reason that the people reading wouldn't hear us. He shushed me, pointing to another glass door. Inside I could see a wood floor, a mirror on the far wall and the occasional arm of a dancer. We really didn't belong here.

"Come on," he said, leading me to the door. "During my walk I stopped here. The class will end in just a few minutes."

We _really_ didn't belong here, and now I _really _wanted to go back. "And then what?" I whispered back frantically.

"Then _I_ will do the talking and you will kiss a girl. Okay?"

"You've gone mad."

Francis didn't answer that. I could hear some music playing, and occasionally the thud of a bunch of feet hitting the floor at the same time. Suddenly I was pushed to the door. I blinked at Francis.

"You have to see which one you want," he said, gesturing to the people inside. There were a bunch of girls, and they all seemed to be either our age or a bit older. My mouth parted.

"_You want me to pick one?"_ I hissed, staring at Francis in a combination of wonder and distaste.

"Of course. It will take less time that way."

"But I won't even know what she's like!"

"Look at how she is dancing."

"_They're all dancing the same!"_

Francis rolled his eyes. "Stop being difficult."

"But there are all those parents here."

"Then we will set up a date."

"I don't even speak French!"

"They all learn English in school. You'll be fine."

I shook my head, trying my best to refrain from strangling Francis on the spot. He seemed to take my silence as a victory and turned back to the girls, who had stopped dancing for the moment. They were all in leotards but no little frilly skirts; I'd never seen anybody doing any dance in real life so I had no clue what to expect. One was wearing skintight shorts.

"I like the one with the little tiny ponytail," Francis whispered by my ear. I let felt my face start to heat up.

"Shut up," I said.

"But the one with the nose that curves down…you see her? I bet she speaks English. And her eyes are captivating, are they not?"

"Shut _up_."

"I am only trying to help."

"Though I'm not sure with _what_."

There was a pause, and they started dancing again. This time they followed the instructor, a woman in her thirties or forties who had blonde hair in a braid.

"Have you picked one?"

"Dear God, you sound like you're shopping for a television."

"Now _that_ one," he said, pointing. There was one girl who was sitting in a fold-out chair by the wall, pulling her hair out of the tight bun it had been tucked into. She looked to be a little older than us. "Flatscreen," he said, and I knew exactly what he was referring to.

I elbowed him in the gut. Hard.

"You abuse me," he moaned, holding his stomach.

"You irritate me."

"Just pick one."

"How about we leave?" It wasn't an offer. I turned, eyes set on the door. There was a tug on my collar and I nearly choked, stumbling back. I decided to make the most of it, backing up _hard_ into Francis. He let go and I started for the door again. I just wanted to leave before the class ended. I felt like a voyeur.

"Come on," Francis said, the first thing we'd said above a whisper for a while. One of the women reading looked up.

"Sorry," I said to her, glaring at Francis. "We're just leaving."

Francis rolled his eyes, following me. "I don't know why you're so sensitive."

"I don't know why you're such an idiot."

We came out onto the street again, cars passing left and right. I let out a breath, relieved not to be inside anymore. Francis seemed entirely disappointed.

"But look, class is ending," he said, still watching the doors. "It's not too late."

"You know, if I do end up kissing a girl I think I'd rather like to get to know her first," I snapped. "Not just pick one and pretend it works."

We skirted around the other topic, the fact that we had, in fact, shared a kiss earlier. I didn't want to bring it up.

"That is why we can make a date. The meeting will be going the entire weekend. We have time."

"I mean more," I said, wanting to get off of the subject as quickly as possible. "I want to date someone before I kiss them."

Looking back on the argument it was so juvenile. The fact that we thought of kissing as the height of physical intimacy would seem ridiculous later, but at the time it was all we felt we could reference. But I held to my point.

We went back to the hotel and didn't talk about the ballet trip; my father's meeting had ended just before but he hadn't noticed our absence. For the rest of the weekend we pretended like that whole first day hadn't happened, and by the end it felt almost as though it'd been a dream that I'd woken up from and discovered was not true. I felt comfortable again.

And when I left with my father to go back on that train Francis had kissed me on the cheek, not the kind you would do in greeting but…but something else. And I'd flushed red and told him he was a pervert and he just laughed. Of course, this was when we were only twelve.

What did we know?

* * *

><p><em>No actual ballet students were spied upon in the making of this chapter.<em>

_Review? And if you can point out any typos I'll give you some bacon._


	3. Beer and Skinny Jeans

_Hello, my pretties. It has been a while, has it not? But never fear, I have returned. _

_Here is where the nitty gritty begins. Kind of. _

_Enjoy!_

* * *

><p>The next time I saw Francis it was nearly four months later, another of those average meetings. This one passed inconsequentially, and he and I spent most of our time playing those little games we had always played. The next meeting was a month and a half after that, and it too came and went with little fanfare. It was a bit different, however, because it was the meeting after which my father started yelling. On the ride back to London he barely spoke to me, glaring out the window or writing furiously onto a thick notepad. His face seemed like it would be bright red forever.<p>

And I suppose I barely registered, somewhere in the back of my mind and with the little snippets of conversation I overheard, that the company had gone bankrupt. And, somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that meant my father was out of work. No work meant no meetings.

No meetings meant no Francis.

He confirmed my suspicions in his next letter. _Our next rendez-vous may have to be during the summer _(and I couldn't help but think he used "rendez-vous" in the most pretentious way) _when school is no longer in session. If it is not before then I wish you a happy birthday, and wish you luck in whatever it is you decide to do with your time. Life without me must be painful._

I thought that last part was just right. He'd been getting too sappy and needed to insert a bit of his froggy self.

School was just as school was, fleeting and unimportant to me. I did assignments, projects and gave all the correct answers in class but my mind was never truly involved. I guessed it had been that way most of my life, but without the constant meetings with Francis I was getting a little irritable. My father was as well.

He'd been yelling a lot more, leaving a lot more and drinking a lot more. I turned thirteen in April and in May he hit me for the first time, a careless slap that had been so unexpected it'd nearly knocked me over. Nobody else was around to watch, but I knew my brothers would not have stopped him. He probably hit them too, the ones still at home.

And from then on it seemed like he was never happy with me. Bad grades? _Smack_. _You're my fucking son do fucking better_. Good grades. _Smack. Finally doing something for the family, you little prick._ So what was the use anymore? By the end of the school year I was nearly failing two classes. I wanted to do better. But I wanted him to go away.

In the space of a few short months I'd become entirely disillusioned with the figure my father had once been. I couldn't believe that at any point in my life I'd wanted to be like him. The train rides and sitting in meetings seemed too distant.

He started to hate everything I was wearing. _What are you, a fucking fairy?_ There it was again, _fairy._ For a while I tried to do what he said, but I'd finally had enough. I went out while he was gone and bought a new outfit, a pair of the skinniest jeans I could find and some shirt with a v-neck and a picture of a guitar on it. My heart was pounding as I tried them on in the department store changing room, wondering how my father would react. I knew it wouldn't be good. Whenever he left home it was usually to get alcohol. He never drank out; no, he did that in the living room in front of the television. He'd gone from entrepreneur raising his son to drunkard in just a short time. I felt a little sick to my stomach.

Instead of wearing the clothes home like I'd planned I kept them in the bag and tried to sneak them in. He was home when I got there, sitting, to my surprise, at the kitchen table. What wasn't surprising was the beer next to him, one of a couple bottles that looked remarkably empty. I tried not look at him as I came in, hoping that maybe if I didn't make eye contact he wouldn't ask me anything.

"Where have _you_ been?"

There was that little lilt to his voice, the sloppiness of his skeptical glance, the signs he was a little more than tipsy. I shrugged quickly, knots forming in my gut. "I had to go out and get something."

"What?"

My heart sped up as I frantically tried to fabricate a lie. "Socks."

"Socks," he repeated, tapping his fingers on the beer bottle. It looked like he wanted to say something else. I bit my lip, eyes wide.

"Socks," I affirmed. I waited in agony as he looked me over, as though working through my lie in his head. The clock ticked, a hollow heartbeat in the silent air.

"Fine. Go put on your socks."

It felt like every muscle in my body relaxed all at one time, and I almost thought I would pass out. I nearly dashed away, bag flying out behind me. It seemed like I was breaking the law, bringing clothes like this into the house. As I stepped into my bedroom and locked the door I could hear the blood in my ears. I'd done it. I'd made it in.

I laid out the clothes on my bed, staring at them in apprehension. I'd bought them; I'd eventually wear them. But I was already figuring it in my head, when to do it and how my father would react. I had to catch him at a good time.

Or, the little demon in my head said, I could not care one bit whether he saw it or not.

It was so tempting. Just to walk out there right now, to tell him how much of an idiot he was for thinking I'd go out and buy socks. I'd give him a piece of my mind.

And, my sane self reasoned, he'd help me along with that.

I stared at the clothes for a long time, trying to imagine myself in them. I didn't really mind wearing stuff like that; it didn't feel any different than regular clothes. And they were practically regular clothes. Just a little…tighter. More metropolitan.

Gayer.

Patrick had been with his girlfriend for more than a year now, and Scott had been jumping around from girl to girl since he'd turned fifteen. Father had no problem with them anymore; it was me he didn't seem to like. My eyes roamed over the clothes again.

Maybe if I got someone to be my girlfriend he'd leave me alone. I didn't think that thirteen was an appropriate age at all for things like that but if it worked I'd do anything. But I just didn't _want_ to. There was no one I really…liked. Sure, there were lots of girls at school. Half of the people I knew were girls. But somehow…

And so I decided. I took a deep breath, closing my eyes, as I finally decided. Tomorrow, first thing in the morning, I'd take a shower and put on the new clothes. And, whether father was home or not I'd wear them out. And if he saw them I'd be ready. I'd defend myself. I'd tell him that the clothes I wore didn't make me a _goddamn fairy, _like he said.

Or maybe I'd just stand there and shake while he finally slapped some sense into me.

But now that I'd decided I had to do it. I let out a calming breath.

"Easy," I said under my breath. "He might not even care."

Easy.

* * *

><p>I got up at seven the next morning. School had ended a couple weeks before so I usually slept late but somehow I couldn't now. It was like I'd planned some big bank heist, instead of planning to wear a certain pair of pants. A bank heist might have been easier, more palatable. Prison couldn't be that bad.<p>

I took a long shower, telling myself that I could still back out. I could just put that outfit in a drawer and never look at it again and if someone ever found it I'd say it was a friend's. They'd believe that. Maybe.

But I didn't back out. I dried off, donning some underwear and then just standing here in front of the clothing, laid out once more on my bed. Somehow today the pants seemed tighter.

I pulled on the shirt, straightening it out. Then I pulled on the jeans, worming my way through the tight legs. When I had them zipped and buttoned I turned to the mirror, examining my reflection. Well, if I wanted to make a statement this was certainly the way. I brushed my hair down, my skinny thirteen-year-old frame seeming even smaller in the tight fabric. But I'd already committed to this. I already had.

So I opened my bedroom door, stepping out into the hall. The lights were all still off, save for the ones between me and the bathroom, so I guessed no one had woken up yet. I was okay for the moment. But I still had yet to do anything really spectacular. I had to go outside. And I had a reason to, of course. I had a letter to send to Francis.

I didn't say anything about my father, though. Francis was the type to worry, and I didn't need him meddling in my life any more than he already did. My letter also contained plans for a meeting during the summer. It had been far too long we'd gone without seeing each other.

Not that I missed him or anything.

I stepped out the door, closing it lightly behind me. Then I started down the path, ridding myself of the letter in just a second and then rushing back in. It was going to be a warm day.

When I got back in the house was still quiet. Nobody was up yet. I swallowed thickly, waiting to hear any sound from any of the bedrooms.

"The fuck are you wearing?"

I jumped, my eyes shooting wide. I whirled to the couch, my heart jumping into my throat. Then I let out a huge sigh, my eyes nearly rolling back into my head in relief. Scott cocked an eyebrow, scratching his head lazily. "You plannin' on joining the Backstreet Boys?"

"No…erm…it's…never mind."

"C'mon, now I'm curious." He didn't look it.

"Father," I said, shrugging awkwardly. Scott blinked at me for a second.

"So you're tryin'a rebel, huh?" He snorted. "I'm sure you could do that without degrading yourself."

"I'm not degrading myself," I said irritably. "These are perfectly normal."

"Course they are. Now all you got to do is grow your hair and you'll be the wet dream of every ten-year-old girl in the world."

"Shut up," I snapped. "Why are you out here anyway?"

"Well, I live here," he said with a smirk. "And our dearest parents were getting it on last night. As you may know, my room is right next to theirs. And the last thing I want to hear is mum yelling 'oh fuck yeah' while I'm gettin' my beauty sleep."

I wrinkled my nose. The thought wasn't particularly appetizing. But maybe it meant that father would be in a better mood. And maybe he'd sleep in.

"You know if daddy dearest sees you in that he'll flay you."

My heart lurched. "No he won't."

"Maybe not, but I'd enjoy your skin while you got it."

I cleared my throat, ushering in a silence. Scott watched me for a moment before lying back down on the couch, sighing. I leaned a little on the kitchen counter, letting out a careful breath.

Then I heard a door.

It creaked open, and my head snapped to the side. Scott huffed out a laugh from the couch, and I think I heard him say something along the lines of 'fucking soap opera.' I heard the heavy footsteps before I saw them, and my father lumbered out of his bedroom. I just stood by the counter, my fingers gripping the edge. Today probably wouldn't be so bad. At worst a hangover. He'd had no time to drink. And there were still those days when he didn't. Maybe this would be one of them.

"Mornin'," he croaked, blinking sleepily. He held his glasses in his hand, and I knew he couldn't really see me yet.

"Good morning," I said in return, anxious for him to finally look at me and react. He rubbed his eyes before slipping on the little glasses and yawning.

"Good time last night, huh?" Scott piped in from the couch. Father snorted.

"Better times than you'll ever have."

"That's harsh."

Father glanced over to the living room, rolling his eyes. Then, finally, he turned to me. He looked me over for a second, his mouth opening a little. He didn't seem to understand, but that may have been the grogginess.

"The fuck are you wearing?"

"That's what I said," Scott added unhelpfully from the couch. I swallowed thickly.

"Clothes," I answered. The denim suddenly seemed to clamp down on my legs, not letting me hide anything. "Why?"

"You planning on being a fucking ballerina?"

I took a breath. "No."

"You're not going anywhere like that. My son's not a queer."

"I'll go wherever I want," I said, but it sounded weak to my own ears. Scott sat up, watching with an excited smile. He was enjoying this.

"Don't talk back to me," father warned.

"I'm not."

"You're fucking lucky I'm in a good mood," he snarled, taking a step toward me. "Now go put on some real clothes."

"Are you a fashion designer?" I asked, already feeling the slap that was sure to come. "Because these _are _real clothes." I was digging my own grave.

I barely even saw his hand move. The crack sounded through the room, and my head snapped to the side. I stumbled a bit, my foot landing awkwardly to catch myself. A split second later the hot sting soared across my face. I only grunted a little, letting out a shaky breath.

"You'll listen to me," father said with a hiss. "And do things right."

I felt a clench in my stomach. "You're not even my real father."

I felt the hit before I saw it. His fist connected with my gut, and almost instantly the sharp pain shot through my chest and all the way down to my groin. I doubled over, squeezing my eyes shut and he pushed me to the side. I coughed, trying to get in a breath that seemed impossible. I landed hard on my knees and the shock ran up my legs, as if to add insult to injury. I stayed there for a moment, the hard ache in my stomach consuming all of my focus. I heard my father's footsteps padding out of the kitchen, and he mumbled to himself.

There were some other footsteps and I cracked an eye open, finally taking a painful breath. Scott stood above me with his hands in his pockets.

"Y'know, you may look like queer of the century but you got balls."

I didn't know whether I should take that as a compliment or not.

All I hoped was that Francis would write back soon and we'd meet up. Maybe then I could sneak away and go live with him or something. His parents were just fine.

Damn, that hurt.

* * *

><p><em>:( <em>

_Things are not hunky-dory in the Kirkland household. _

_Oh, and by the way, I think that Scott is a terrible and unimaginative name for Scotland but I couldn't think of anything better XD So Scott I shall use.  
><em>

_Review? And if you can point out any typos I'll make you some pasta._


	4. Running Away

_Oh dear, it's been a while, my pretties. I'm sorry. I've just...well, I've been losing some compulsion to write about this lately. I don't know why, but it would explain why this chapter is so short and uneventful. I apologize. I don't want to give up on this but I just don't...feel it XD Perhaps that will change. _

_Anyway, hope you enjoy :3_

* * *

><p>Francis wrote me about two weeks later. I hadn't worn the jeans again, but I kept telling myself that it was just a matter of time. I'd work up the nerve again. It wouldn't take long. I'd do it.<p>

Even though I didn't know when.

The letter lifted my spirits a little, though. Hearing from Francis always did that. After the incident with the jeans Father hadn't done anything to me. He mostly didn't talk to me, but he didn't talk much to Scott or Patrick when he came home for a couple days except when they watched the football game and couldn't stop yelling. I didn't much care for football, but it kept them occupied for quite some time.

_I have been trying to arrange with my father a date when we can meet. What do you say to the 30__th__ of June? I will be vacationing, though I do not know where yet, and this is the only day I will be available for some time. We can meet in the north of France if you do not wish to venture to Paris, and then we could, perhaps, leave for somewhere a bit more exotic. Judging from your most recent letter the environment in your home is not as favorable as in mine, so I hope your parents are agreeable. _

Hah.

_I would also like you to meet a friend of mine. I think you two will get along, or at least I sincerely hope so. Other than that I would like to keep this a secret; I know how you love those. _

I huffed, raising an eyebrow at the misplaced smiley face in the otherwise very professional letter. I could imagine the look on his face, even though it'd been a while since I'd seen him. I wondered if he'd gotten any taller than me. If he'd changed much. We hadn't been apart for long, but things could change a surprising amount in just a few short months.

_I look forward to seeing you again. My days have been dreary without you, I thought you'd like to know. Hopefully you will bring that spark back into my life. Anyway, _mon cher, _I'm afraid this must be the end of my letter. If you agree to the date I have suggested you need only say so and I will meet you. Give me a place._

With his usual flourish and dot signature the letter ended. I read the "spark back into my life" part again, swallowing. He always had to say the most embarrassing things. Not that I…well, not that I particularly…_minded_, I mean…I don't know. It gave me a funny feeling in my stomach, and I had to read it one more time.

"_Oi! Arthur!"_ I heard Scott yelling through my door. _"Food!"_

"Fine," I said loudly, sighing. Then I folded the letter again, already planning my response. I tried to think of a place where we could meet, for the first time in months. It would have to be a great one, given how life had been going lately. As I left my bedroom and went into the kitchen my mind was alight with my tentative mental map of France. I'd had a bit more of a chance to work on my French, thanks to classes in school. I might be able to actually say something of worth this time.

I sat down at the table, where my mother was placing plates in front of my brother and father. She got to me and squeezed my shoulder, though I had no idea why. The spaghetti looked a little undercooked, but I didn't care. I didn't really have that sense of taste that Francis flaunted. I couldn't critique food. It was either good or bad, no shades.

She sat down and started poking at her food. Under the fluorescent light it felt like we were in some movie. An uncomfortable scene, at that. I took a few bites of the noodles before Scott said something, breaking the silence.

"I'm going over to Margaret's later," he said through a mouthful of spaghetti. "She an' I are going to go out to eat."

"Then why are you eating now?" I asked.

"'Cause," Scott explained, "She wants to go to some girly restaurant and said she'd _jus' the thing_ for me to try. I want to belt up in case it's some little tiny whatever."

Father laughed and Mother smiled passively. "Taking a liking to this Margaret, eh?" Father asked, elbowing Scott heartily. "Be careful before she sinks 'er claws in you." He laughed again.

"Why, mum got claws?" Scott asked. Mother flashed Father a knowing look and he leaned forward to peck her on the cheek.

"Love you, darlin'."

He was in his usual comfortable state of just-intoxicated-enough-to-laugh-too-much, and that was okay. Things like Scott's never-ending stream of girlfriends really tickled his fancy, and giving my brother relationship advice was a pastime of his.

"Anyway, yeah. I think Margie and I's gonna go steady. But you never know."

"Good man," Father said with gusto. "Get 'em while they're hot."

I didn't add to this conversation, and I decided staring at my spaghetti would prevent them from asking my opinion on such an asinine subject. They didn't, not that I really expected them to. I was just taking preventative measures.

After a moment the topic died down, and it was as good a time as any to bring up Francis's letter. I cleared my throat but no one looked up.

"So, erm, I got a letter from Francis."

There was no response, except that Scott nodded. So I continued. "We haven't really met up in a while and he suggested we arrange some get-together at the end of the month."

Mother seemed most receptive to the idea but nobody really said anything. "He was thinking we could meet halfway, on the 30th."

"Too long without a date?" Scott joked. I winced internally, at the same time wishing I could throttle him over the table. My father glanced up.

"It's nothing like that," I assured quickly. "We're just friends and…you know. Haven't seen each other in a while."

"Don't we have that party?" Mother asked, taking a sip of whatever she had to drink. "On the thirtieth?"

"The Stephens," Scott prompted. "I think."

"Yes," she said, turning to me. "So I think the answer's no."

My eyes widened. "What? What party?"

"Your father and I were invited to a party at the Stephens' house."

"So why can't _I _go? You can go to the party."

Scott snickered. "You're kinda serious about this, huh? Gonna wear your hot pants?"

Now I wanted to kill him. My father looked at me and my heart sank. "It's nothing like that."

"You're not going," Father said. "That boy's more queer than _you _are."

My mouth parted a little, and I could feel my heart beating like my chest was empty. So _that _was their reasoning? What Francis _looked_ like? Goddamn Scott. I clenched my hand into a fist. I'd suddenly lost my appetite.

"Come on," I said. "We haven't seen each other in months."

"Yeah," Scott defended. "And since he hasn't seen that kid I think he got _even_ gayer so you can kind of count that one out."

I finally kicked him, hard, in the shin. He raised an eyebrow at me, that stupid smug look on his face. Sometimes his presence alone made me want to buy into the "gingers have no souls" school of thought.

"You can come with us to the party," Mother offered. I just looked down and didn't answer, biting my tongue instead. "It could be fun."

Fun. Right.

* * *

><p>I thought about the events of supper all the rest of the night, and no matter how much I tried to rationalize it by saying I'd been a bit stuck-up for pouting when I didn't get my way I couldn't believe that. Their reasoning was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. I scowled at the wall of my darkened bedroom, narrowing my eyes at the green walls.<p>

Why on earth did everything have to be so…so…ugh. I got up, flinging open my closet door. There was a box on the floor, underneath some other things. I weaseled it out from under the other cardboard boxes, until it sat in front of me. I flicked open the top, extracting the neatly folded denim pile on top. I hadn't worn the skinny jeans in a while. I felt like it now, for some reason. I couldn't place why, but it seemed like the thing to do.

I slipped out of my flannel bottoms and into the tighter pants. Then I examined myself in the mirror, staring blankly at my legs. I couldn't put any thoughts together in my mind. Not right now.

Then, suddenly, an urge came over me. I got up, flicking on the light over my head. Then I fished around in my bedside drawer for a piece of paper. I retrieved one and a pen and then set to writing. It was a letter to Francis, and I marveled at how my hand didn't even shake as I wrote the first sentences.

_The 30__th__ sounds lovely. How about we meet wherever you're going? Just tell me and I'll be there._

And I meant to hold to my promises.

* * *

><p>I didn't say anything to my parents about the trip or the party after that. Three weeks passed like a glacier, until I felt like my head was going to explode. But then, after much waiting and making sure I didn't get on my parents' nerves, it was time.<p>

I'd been agonizing over this day for what seemed like forever. Every time I thought about what I'd so meticulously planned to do my heart would lurch and a little flash of nervous adrenaline would rush through my body. It was so simple, but I knew the price I'd have to pay afterward would be astronomical.

But it was Francis, so I'd take the chance.

What? It wasn't my fault he was the only moderately sane person I knew. It wasn't my fault his letters were the one thing I looked forward to the most. And I couldn't help how my parents were. Insufferable as they acted.

So I awoke at three in the morning on June 30th, trying my best not to think about whatever punishment would come my way for this. Only time would be able to tell. Somehow that didn't comfort me.

I'd gotten my things together the night before, and they sat in a backpack on the floor at the foot of my bed. I slipped on clothes to wear for my journey and then some shoes. For the thousandth time I looked through what I had packed, making sure I had everything I needed. It all seemed to be there…toothbrush, clothes for a week, toiletries…stolen train ticket money. Add that to the list of things for which I would be killed later.

I slung the backpack over my shoulders and crept out of my bedroom. The house was dark but that was good. It meant that nobody would be out here to stop me. My heart was still pounding silently as I tiptoed across the carpet. Then, for some reason, I stopped.

I stared at the door, watching it with fearful eyes. When I stepped outside I was crossing the event horizon of acceptable behavior. But I had to. I'd told Francis I was coming. He told me he and his father would pick me up at the train station, and then we'd be off to their vacation destination (which I was kind of looking forward to): Rome, Italy. How they could afford that I didn't know. But I had to go. I couldn't leave Francis waiting. And maybe I'd never have to come back home. Maybe I would live in the streets. Or in France. Or Italy.

Then I heard some small noises coming from my parents' bedroom. There were some thuds and then I heard some muffled talking. My heart jumped into overdrive and I sprang for the door, and I was outside before I could hear what the conversation was about. I leaned against the outside of our house for a moment, catching my breath. There was my decision.

The street was entirely quiet, as though nothing could disturb it. Nothing, I supposed, except for me, a little boy running as fast as possible away from home and in the direction of anywhere else. I was running on pure adrenaline, and I don't think I even felt tired until I was safely in the city, then in the station, and finally sitting in the sparse coach of the train taking me to France. It passed like some kind of dream, and I felt like all I could do was stumble around in the dark. I wondered if it was possible to go into cardiac arrest simply from a constantly pounding heart. If so, I was in grave danger.

And then, like a dream, the train slowed to a stop and I think I relaxed for the first time. I'd gotten this far and nobody had stopped me. It was almost six-thirty, and when the rest of the passengers started to get up I did as well. I couldn't believe myself. So far from home, and my parents would probably find out within the hour. I was still dazed.

The station was crowded and loud, more so than before. The morning commute, I guessed. My eyes frantically searched the people, and I nearly bumped into a few passers-by. I scanned for the long, blond hair, probably up in some ponytail.

Then I found them and all of my inhibitions about being here and leaving home evaporated. It seemed almost as though Francis found me at the same time, waving as I did. An unintentional grin stretched across my face (though it wasn't just because of him, dammit. I'm not that desperate) and I started forward as quickly as possible without looking like an idiot. Or maybe I did. I didn't know.

And so I was in France. With Francis. And things were going just fine. For the first time in a long time, things felt that they were as they should be.

"I don't know if I can afford to be seen with such an unsightly thing," Francis remarked flippantly as I approached. I rolled my eyes. It was astounding how in just a few months Francis had gotten so tall. He was a good three inches taller than I was now. But I was still high off of the rebellion and I didn't care.

He pulled me into a quick hug and for some reason I smiled. My brain probably wasn't working right. His father clapped me on the back and I think I was still shaking. But I couldn't tell Francis about my means of arriving here. Not just yet. He'd trusted me. He hadn't asked to confirm it with my parents. I couldn't say anything until I'd calmed down or and we got home. Or whichever came first.

Francis's smile was infectious, so peaceful and the way it scrunched up his eyes a little. My heart was still stuttering, adrenaline still making my fingers tingle. I hiked my backpack up on my shoulder and let out a sigh. "I'm here."

"I noticed," he said. I cuffed him on the back of the head and he let me.

"I didn't."

"I have someone for you to meet," he said. I nodded, finally starting to come back to earth. My stomach was settling.

As if on cue, a girl stepped into the picture. I hadn't even noticed her before; I suppose I'd been so occupied with our reunion. She was about our age, it seemed, with short, brown hair and delicate features. She had long eyelashes as well, and she was by all standards beautiful. She waved her fingers a little at me and I waved back.

"This is Jeanne," Francis introduced, smiling warmly. I extended a hand to shake and she took it. "She's my girlfriend."

I froze mid-shake. My eyes darted to Francis, wider than they probably should have been. It was the way he said that, so flippantly. Like it was nothing. Francis's father wasn't even paying attention. He'd started toward the door, and I supposed we were to follow later. But these were all tiny thoughts in the back of my mind, because all I could really process was that Francis said that this girl, right here, was his girlfriend. Like it was a job title. No longer hiring.

"A pleasure," I said, trying a smile. She smiled back.

"Her English is not so good," Francis said, and I just stared. "But that should not be a problem."

"No." No problem. I laughed a little, without mirth. What on earth was going on with me? Francis had a girlfriend. What was something you said to that? "Congrats."

Congrats. But I felt a little sick. That was ridiculous, though. I smiled.

* * *

><p><em>So...yes, that is Jeanne d'Arc. XD <em>

_Review? And if you can point out any typos I may actually get the next chapter out earlier._


	5. Didn't Want to Go to Italy Anyway

_I'll save it for the end._

* * *

><p>Jeanne was a wonderfully pleasant person, and if anything that only made everything worse. I didn't know why it was worse, but it was. She made it really hard to hate her, not that I would want to do that. On the ride back to Francis's apartment his father chatted away about this and that, what had been happening since I'd seen them last, what we were looking to have for lunch. I tried my damnedest not to think about whether my parents were up or not.<p>

"Jeanne very much wanted to meet you," Francis said as we pulled around a corner in a taxi. "I told her you were learning French." His eyebrows wiggled.

"Is that so?" I hummed in an effort to remain nonchalant. "I'm really awful," to Jeanne.

She pursed her lips and shook her head. "Don't worry," she laughed, "I am less."

"Worse," Francis corrected smoothly, "But that's not true. Arthur would be absolutely lost without us." He gave me one of those snotty looks, all long eyelashes and schmaltz.

"Lies," I countered. "You all speak English anyway."

"Honestly, we probably speak it better than you do," Francis lamented smugly. Smug was always a good descriptor for him. He was perpetually smug, the bastard.

"Francis," his father interjected from the passenger seat. Then he said something in French that I didn't quite catch. He turned around a little to look at the three of us in the back seat and said something referencing Jeanne. I caught bits and pieces but not really enough to get the gist past "eating" and "home."

She laughed a little and shook her head quickly. Her hair was very straight and kind of floppy. _"Oh, no, I couldn't," _she replied. At least I understood that one. Score one for me.

"Father," Francis interrupted, jerking his head toward me. "English."

Okay, so sometimes the bastard was good for something besides being smug. It may have been a bit of a hit to the old ego to have them switch languages to help me out, but it was marginally worse being cut out of the conversation. I glanced over at him but he wasn't looking my direction.

"Apologies," Francis's father said, "I was asking if Jeanne wanted to join us for lunch."

"Stay," Francis urged her. I watched him with a strange feeling in my stomach. It wasn't the thought of her hanging out with us. She was fine. It probably had something more to do with the way he was looking at her, maybe, if that meant anything. Not that it meant anything for one fourteen-year-old to look at another in any way, or that I had anything to do with it if it did.

She replied in French and pointed between the two of us. Francis laughed.

"She said she doesn't want to mess up our grand reunion," Francis translated with a smile.

"It's fine," I said. Because it was, I told myself. "We already missed the chance to run dramatically into each other's arms, so what do we have left to lose?"

Francis relayed that back to Jeanne, who huffed out an exasperated-looking laugh. "I like this one," she said in English.

"'This one?'" I looked to Francis skeptically. "How exactly do you talk about me?"

He didn't have a chance to respond as the taxi stopped and Francis's father turned around in his seat again. "Francis, go bring them upstairs. I need to run some errands."

"Fantastically vague," Francis observed cheerily. "But will do!"

The streets were surprisingly busy for the hour of the morning. It was probably the heading-to-work crowd. I would have felt worse about it if I didn't know that Francis usually woke up at 6 and his father sometime before that. I was honestly more surprised they'd managed to bring someone else along.

We stepped out of the taxi and into the warming air. It was supposed to be a pretty hot day in London, and the weather couldn't be all that different here. Francis closed the car door behind Jeanne and joined me on the sidewalk.

"We're leaving around noon," he said. "You ready?"

Italy. "Never been readier."

Francis smiled that one smile he had, the one I liked. The one that made him look a little bit less like an asshole than he usually did. "Have you ever been there?"

"This is as far as I've ever been from home," I replied. "Depending on how far south we are right now, this could be my longest excursion to date. I'm a real adventurer."

"Oh, I bet," Francis gave me a little eyebrow thing again. He'd never really done that before, or at least not as much. It was weird. Jeanne smacked him on the shoulder, assumedly because I couldn't quite reach. I thanked her mentally and maybe with my face a little. Francis shrugged helplessly. "What? I'm a flirt." He nudged her.

Whoa.

Well then. Maybe more things had changed since we'd last seen each other than I'd thought. He wasn't all that much older than me but for some reason it seemed like he'd decided to start acting it. I responded with some kind of laugh that I hoped sounded appropriately dry.

"And, apparently, even more of an idiot than before," I added. "Who even _says _something like that?"

"Teenagers who want to pretend they are adults," Francis's father cut in from just behind Francis, who jumped a little.

"Thank you," I gushed, hoping I looked at least a fraction as smug as Francis usually did.

This is why I loved being here, really. Of all the stupid things that I could look forward to, our banter was probably the best. It was so, so nice to be able to freely insult someone without them getting all bothered and sensitive. Francis just caught my jabs and threw them back at me like it was nothing. Not with as much finesse or verbal agility as me, _obviously_, but it was still wonderful to be with someone and never have to watch what I said.

At least, mostly.

"Go, go, don't just stand in the middle of the street," Francis's father urged. We were on the sidewalk, but he still had a point.

"I am entirely aware of my own age," Francis defended. "I thought you were running errands."

"I thought you were going upstairs," his father replied. Point taken. Francis sighed dramatically.

"You see what I have to deal with?" he complained dramatically.

I thought of my own father and hated how I pictured him with a beer. "Truly awful," I drawled. "I don't know how you survive."

* * *

><p>When we got up to Francis's flat Jeanne took off her shoes by the door and headed directly into the kitchen. It looked like she was there pretty often. Which, of course, she probably was. This was the first time I'd ever actually been here. I realized with a little weird twist in my chest that I'd only ever actually seen Francis in the context of a hotel.<p>

"Did you eat?" Jeanne called as I started to slip my sneakers off.

"You don't have to do that," Francis commented. "She just likes to."

I pursed my lips. "Well, maybe I do too."

"Hello?" from the kitchen.

"No, we haven't," Francis called back. "Don't worry about it, I'll find something for us." Then, to me, "We don't keep a lot of food in the house, unfortunately. Father is not a fan of cooking."

"We have a startling amount in common."

"_I,_ on the other hand, love to cook," Francis announced. We stepped out of the entrance and into the living room. There were some nice, large windows on the outer wall and a wide enough street to give a very urban feel. 100% Francis.

"News to me." It really was. The most I'd ever seen Francis cook was microwaving popcorn.

"I hardly see you enough to tell you _everything,_" Francis said.

I did a great job ignoring the nasty little curling thing my stomach did at that. I didn't have the right to be upset, of course. The entire fact that I was in France right now at all was based thoroughly on false pretenses of all kinds. It was almost seven-thirty. Mother at least had to be awake by now. They wouldn't expect me up for another few hours. Hopefully by the time they realized I wasn't just sleeping in I'd be on my way to Rome. That was the plan, at least, however flimsy it was.

"Likewise." I was feeling a bit testy. Jeanne emerged from the kitchen and plopped down in an armchair with a glass of water.

"How long have the two of you…you know," I trailed off a bit.

"Two months," Francis said proudly as he urged me to sit as well.

"Is she coming?"

"To Italy? No, no, she has a competition this weekend," Francis explained. Jeanne was listening to our conversation and I wondered how much English she actually spoke. It seemed to be a lot more than she was letting on.

"Competition in what?" Probably the right thing to ask. I wasn't good at small talk.

I expected him to say that she was a dancer or something. She looked like one, probably. To be honest, my only experience with anyone who danced at all was that one ill-fated excursion to the ballet studio.

"Archery," Francis answered. I blinked.

"Really."

"I am here," Jeanne reminded us. Francis laughed a little and said something to her in French. She nodded and mimed pulling back a bow. "Pchew," she mimicked the arrow. Then she said something back to Francis that I didn't catch a word of.

"She said she's training for battle," Francis said mirthfully. "In case Paris falls under siege."

I laughed, but I was finding that I wasn't a big fan of this whole stilted translated conversation. I didn't know what I was supposed to do, just standing in his flat with him and his girlfriend. Whenever we met up during business meetings we were always going off to sneak around somewhere or play some game. Now it seemed that Francis was increasingly interested in making small talk instead of adventuring somewhere. Not that there really was anywhere to adventure, of course.

I chalked it up to my own nerves. Francis was just a person, a kid, I reminded myself, and I couldn't expect him to be my main entertainment all the time. I was just relieved to see him. Regardless of anything he was doing, he was a huge breath of fresh air after being around my family for so long.

"The armies of Mordor won't stand a chance," I joked back. Francis rolled his eyes.

I needed to relax. I was overthinking everything because I was stressed. There was no need to be. I was here already, wasn't I? Francis was probably exactly the same and I was just too panicky to notice. I needed to stop analyzing and start enjoying. I tried to imagine myself spending the evening sitting in a stuffy, smoky flat while my parents got drunk with their friends. This was infinitely better.

I smiled for real and batted at my hair. "I'm glad to see you."

Francis raised an eyebrow. "Likewise."

"Ooh, I didn't know my boyfriend has a boyfriend," Jeanne teased. My eyes widened and then I scowled at her, scandalized.

"I'm not gay," I growled automatically. Some contrasting thoughts popped up unhelpfully and the echo of my father's voice swatted them away.

Francis gasped melodramatically. "Does this mean we're breaking up?"

I wasn't very good at joking about this, I was starting to figure out. "Ha ha."

"I think you forgot to pack your sense of humor," Francis quipped slyly.

"Well, at least I remembered my toothbrush."

Francis was smart and knew when to drop things. He finished it up with a little laugh and that was it for that conversation. He started talking about Italy instead, describing where we were going to be going and what we had planned. Apparently Jeanne had been there quite a few times. I was starting to get the sense that she was probably pretty wealthy.

Francis's father returned a little bit later, talking on his phone. He turned into the kitchen instead of joining us in the living room. Francis had finally sat himself down instead of hovering behind one of the taller chairs and he was going into excessive detail about some fountain or something. Apparently Jeanne spoke Italian.

"Arthur!"

I jumped a little. It was Francis's father calling from the kitchen. I turned in my seat but he wasn't peeking out into the living room.

"May I speak to you?"

I turned to Francis, who shrugged. "Be right there," I called back as I stood. My overstuffed backpack was still hanging on one shoulder. All of the floors were nice wood and everything was far cleaner than I'd expected it to be, for some reason. I made my way into the kitchen.

Francis's father watched as I entered, then motioned for me to close the door. The look on his face made my heart jump up into my throat. I was suddenly queasy. His phone was still in one hand. Oh no.

"Sit," he intoned, gesturing to one of the bar stools across from where he stood. I wandered forward and sat delicately, not meeting his eyes.

"Yes?"

"Arthur," he started with a sigh, "I understand the position you must be in."

I pretended I had no idea what he was talking about, even though my heart was racing and I was itching in my own skin. I knew where this was going and I racked my brain. Who would have been up this early to figure out I wasn't at home? Scott? It may have been Scott.

"That was your father."

Of-fucking-course it was. I swallowed. "Yeah?"

"You know you can't just go do something like this," Francis's father said. "I know that things have been rough for you at home, and I would very much like to help out. But lying to me won't help me help you."

I felt the 'but' coming. "You have to go back. I'm sorry."

I bit the inside of my cheek. "I can't."

"I can't bring you with us. I'm not interested in kidnapping. Now that I know you aren't supposed to be here I'm liable."

"I won't go home," I countered suddenly, surprised at my own vigor. "I'll just go somewhere else. I'm not going to go home."

"Arthur." Half sigh, half command. I stared determinedly at my hands.

"Your parents aren't angry," he urged. "They just want you home."

"Of course they wouldn't act angry on the phone, not to you," I snapped even though I didn't really intend to. It wasn't his fault, but I couldn't help the twinge in the back of my head that told me that everything was just so goddamn unfair. "I don't have money to go back," I tried.

"I can give you money," Francis's father sighed. "You just need to go back. I'm sorry."

I supposed that at some point I'd been expecting to get caught. I just hadn't anticipated it would be this early. I'd imagined getting to Italy and then having to suddenly leave, becoming a fugitive or something. I didn't know. I hadn't planned very far past getting here. I was thirteen.

We eventually decided that I would go home after eating something. Francis's father said he was going to go with me, which meant that he'd probably get back too late for their train and they were going to have to take a later one. That only made me feel more like shit than I already did. Why had I ever thought this was going to work? I wanted to jump off the nearest building.

Francis's father told Francis that something had come up at home for me and I needed to go back to help out. For all that I desperately didn't want to go home, I was thankful that Francis's father was on my side for at least some of it, enough not to let Francis know how much of my leaving was the product of my own idiocy.

I had managed to resign myself to the idea of going back. Maybe it was because I had always been expecting to get caught. As I picked at my toast I tried to plan my route into the house. There weren't that many obstacles between the front door and my bedroom, and I could be fast if I prepared myself. There was no lock on my door but there was a chair at my desk that I could prop under the doorknob. If I stopped at a store on the way back I probably had enough money left for food and could hole myself up in my room until things blew over. If all else failed I could jump out my window, rob a petrol station and become a hermit in the hills.

"Ahhh," Francis groaned, "I wish you could come with us. I had so much planned." He sighed a long sigh and rested his chin on his hand. "I haven't seen you in so _long_."

Oh, so now he missed me? Jeanne watched him with some passive sympathy. "You can meet a different time," she suggested.

"Yeah," Francis mumbled. "Maybe we can hang out in London?" he asked a little more brightly.

"Maybe," I shrugged. "Definitely."

"It's a date." He gave a big grin and somehow looked so much younger.

"Fantastic." I made myself smile and for a little while I just sort of watched Francis. I liked the ponytail; it was a good style for him. Not that he needed to try very hard. His father was very handsome and there was no sign yet that Francis wouldn't completely outstrip him in the looks department. I was done pretending I didn't notice things like that.

* * *

><p>I didn't start getting stressed again until we were about ten minutes away from home. Francis's father was very tall and I was sure that anyone who cared to look would notice that I didn't look a thing like him. He was perfectly nice, as always. He was a little like what I wished my father could be like, in a very abstract way. In the long run I knew that he was flippant and let Francis very much run his own life. I wasn't sure what I'd do with that kind of power if I had it.<p>

I didn't talk very much, partly because of the growing knot in my stomach and partly because I felt really, really bad that he'd taken it upon himself to ride back with me. He was a surprisingly inscrutable person and I couldn't tell if he was really angry or not underneath his calm demeanor. I didn't so much feel ashamed as I felt dumb.

He left me at the station and wished me luck. I wasn't sure luck was exactly what I needed (a Kevlar vest and helmet would probably be a better bet) but I thanked him anyway.

"Don't think you aren't welcome again," he said. "Come by any time, as long as everyone who needs to know where you are is actually told." He flashed a little smile and looked a whole lot like Francis.

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Now, be off. Run free."

I hiked my backpack up and left for home. Something in my head was telling me that it may well be the last time I saw him before my funeral.

A bus and a short walk later and I was standing at my own doorstep. The whole morning didn't feel particularly real, even though I'd somehow managed to get myself to France, alone, and less than two hours before I'd been eating breakfast in Francis's flat. I'd actually been up for a considerable while, and I hadn't gotten a huge amount of sleep.

I took a deep breath and carefully turned the doorknob. I carefully pushed the door open and waited for my father's voice. I could feel it coming. It was seconds away. Any minute now. I peeked inside. The television was on and the kitchen was mostly dark. Looked normal.

I closed the door behind me and peered around the corner. Scott looked up lazily from the couch. I cleared my throat.

"You owe me your ass."

I blinked.

"And your children's asses, and your children's children's asses. All mine."

I opened my mouth as the realization washed over me. It was like every muscle in my body had been clenched and then decided to turn to jelly all at once. I fell against the wall.

"It was you. Not him. On the phone."

"Of course it was me," Scott drawled, kicking his feet up on the sofa. "It's always me, saving you from all of your own shit." He looked back to the screen. "Mum and dad went out early. I don't know where. As far as they know you might still be asleep. You owe me _big_ fucking time for getting your stupid ass back here before them."

For the first time in my entire life, I kind of felt like hugging Scott. Not that I ever would, but it was the thought that counted. "How did you know where I was?"

"Because I'm your darling doting big brother who sometimes remembers when you say shit. Also you fucking wrote it down."

Right. I'd left that on my desk.

"Um. Thanks." My arm was suddenly very itchy.

"Whoa there, don't lay it on too thick," Scott said. "That kid's dad must be deaf if he thought I was our father."

"Really," I mumbled kind of awkwardly, "Thanks."

"Yeah, yeah." Scott waved a hand dismissively.

I had to go sit down somewhere. This was an outcome I hadn't accounted for, in the best possible way. I wondered what Scott was going to make me do for him, but whatever it was there was no way it could compare to what father would have done. Theoretically.

It was also kind of disappointing, in a weird way. I'd been preparing myself for something big to happen today, and now none of it was turning out to have mattered. I poured myself a glass of water and eyed the bottle of vodka warily like I always did.

* * *

><p>June 30th became the first of a long line of escape attempts that peppered the next few months. The majority of them were only half-hearted and half of them mother and father never found out about. When they did their reactions were underwhelming. A week after school started up I disappeared for 36 hours and no one except Scott even seemed to notice.<p>

Francis and I kept sending letters back and forth, but every time he asked when he could come visit I gave the house a once-over and decided maybe it wasn't the time. I thought about his clean flat with the large windows and white walls and couldn't actually imagine him sitting on our smoke-infused couch in our house that hadn't been redesigned since the era of bell-bottoms and wood paneling.

I worked harder on French in school and Father started mellowing out a little. He didn't yell nearly as much, though that may have been the product of my staying in my bedroom most of the time. We couldn't afford internet in the house so I would talk to Francis at school sometimes. He was the constant. He was always there and, interestingly, he never mentioned Jeanne. Maybe I just didn't ask.

Things weren't necessarily going well, but they were going. I wasn't afraid of being home.

Then, when I was fourteen and five months, mother died and everything pretty much went to shit again.

* * *

><p><em>Wow. So. <em>

_The last time I updated this was more than two years ago, and for some reason I recently decided that I maybe wanted to continue/finish it. I'm sorry I left this alone for so, so long, but now I hope not to let it die again. _

_Also, as it has been quite a while, I apologize for any changes in writing style XD If anything, I hope it's better. _

_Anyway, the usual still stands. I'm too lazy to do my own editing so I bribe you all with impossible gifts in exchange for pointing out errors and typos. Have at it! 3_


	6. The Resistance Begins

_Hello, my lovelies! Have another chapter, with 100% more Antonio._

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><p>I'd never even heard of hypertension until I was called to the main office at school on an otherwise normal Friday and was told that something had happened to mother and she was in the hospital. They didn't tell me that part of her brain had popped a little and she'd had a stroke at home, or that she was DOA. I didn't remember how I managed to get to the hospital, but by the time I arrived they'd already stopped trying to resuscitate her and I was brought straight to the basement.<p>

Father and Scott were there before me and neither of them were speaking. Father's jaw was set so hard it looked about to crack and Scott was just sort of staring. I was crying even though I didn't remember starting and it felt like my entire body was just empty. Nothing was there except mist and chloroform and I couldn't feel my hands or feet. Nobody touched anybody and I spent the entire time at the hospital in a wet, puffy daze, my arms clutched around my own body while Scott and father looked so fucking stoic.

It was just a reactionary cry, though. I didn't get it. I didn't really feel it, even as the twin statues identified the body and did whatever they were supposed to do so we could go home. I sat in a chair in some waiting room and stared at the floor. I wasn't even really thinking anything, except the image of my mother sitting at the dining table for some reason.

I never felt it as much as I thought I should. Father drove us home and we didn't even turn on the lights when we got inside. I wanted to go to my room but I didn't want to be alone but I didn't want to be around Scott and father but I really just didn't even want to exist. I just sat on the couch. Nobody spoke much, except when we decided on a TV channel and when it was almost midnight and father was too drunk to open the fridge. I was still awake because I didn't feel like I was even able to sleep so I watched him stumble into the kitchen counter and eventually become unable to stand.

He vomited on the linoleum and Scott was chainsmoking mostly out the window well into his second pack. I hadn't bothered to clean up the sandwich place teetering on the arm of the sofa and my eyes never left the television. I had stopped crying a long while before, right about the time father started. It was mostly because he'd had so much whiskey that by 7pm he was already too far gone to remember the rest of the night.

That was the only expected thing about the whole situation, really. The only thing that made any sense was father getting shitfaced.

* * *

><p>I dug through a plastic bin of papers, my eyes about to cross. You couldn't exactly call any Kirkland "organized," although it was admirable that we'd tried to put all of our important documents in one single bin instead of scattered under mattresses and in the silverware drawer.<p>

I eventually found what I was looking for. I carefully extracted the marriage license (only slightly folded) and laid it on top of mother's birth certificate and some medical card. I'd been fortunate that all of the documents were in the same place. Maybe I hadn't been giving Kirkland organization a fair shot. Now to get it alphabetical.

Three days had passed, which seemed like years and years but again like no time at all. I checked the page I'd printed out from the library and made sure I had everything I needed. Then I gathered the documents and tucked them into a red school folder I'd labeled "Maths" at some point.

I stepped out into the hall and from there into the living room. Scott wasn't sitting on the couch for once—he was making himself some kind of spaghetti ring canned thing.

"He lucid?" I asked. Scott glanced back at me and shrugged.

"No. I think he's still passed out."

"Mm." I bit my lip a little as I looked for my shoes by the sofa. "Should we put water or something by the bed?"

"Nah," Scott snorted. "He won't be sober long enough to be hung over."

I grimaced. It was true. "I'm going to do the registration thing," I said after a moment. Scott stirred the pot and hummed a little acknowledgement.

"Want some breakfast?"

It was already almost two in the afternoon on a Monday and Scott was just eating breakfast. I'd been up since about nine, hopping out to the library to figure out what you were supposed to do when someone died. Scott wasn't taking a whole lot of initiative, not that I'd expected he would, and father hadn't been in any state to go settle affairs.

It also gave me something to do so I didn't pace around all day.

"I ate," I said. "Thanks, though."

"So polite," Scott intoned with a sigh. Nothing much had changed about his demeanor except all of the bite had been taken out of it. Right now he didn't so much snipe as he just stated things. His sarcastic jabs sounded so flat and factual. "Wasn't gonna feed you anyway."

I cleared my throat and double (triple) checked that I had all the papers before heading to the door. "I'll be back in an hour or something."

"And I'll be watching reruns of Breaking Bad and eating noodle shit, now that we're keeping each other updated."

I sighed and rolled my eyes. Then I took a breath and opened the door. It wasn't exactly frigid outside but there had been a lot of rain and it was icy. This winter was looking to be warmer than usual, which I didn't mind.

As I walked my mind wandered. I wondered if we even had enough alcohol in the house for father to sustain this catatonia for much longer. He'd probably cut back soon enough. I felt very weird, in a way I couldn't quite explain. I kept waiting for the Big Realization to hit me, that mother was dead and she wouldn't be back forever. That it would just be the three of us, me and the two biggest assholes I'd ever had the misfortune to live with.

See? I was even joking. Things didn't feel all that different. It wasn't like nothing had changed, but mother had never been…no, that wasn't true. She'd been there. But she hadn't been a…presence? That sounded awful too.

It felt like it had just been me, father, and Scott for longer than these three days.

I felt like absolute shit for thinking it. I knew that things had been unbelievably hard for mother most of the time. I was aware enough to know that. She was married to a man who dealt with failure like a computer dealt with water. I'd never seen him hit her but that was because he did much worse shit to her than that. Mental stuff. Emotional stuff.

Punches let you hurt and be angry at someone. Words hit you just as hard but only let you be angry at yourself.

So she'd retreated. Her armies didn't think they were strong enough and there was no backup on the way so she backed off. From everything. She made herself small because all that anyone ever showed her was that the bigger you are, the easier you break. All it takes is a nail to break a window but you need a reactor to split an atom.

And what had that culminated in? Nothing but her shitty-ass son feeling like a murderer himself for making half-assed jokes not a week after she was gone because for a while she was too small for him to see that she was even there. Now all this shit was coming to the surface. I clutched the papers and told myself that if nothing else I was better than Scott. Leagues better than father.

I hadn't told Francis yet.

* * *

><p>Father sobered up a little after about a week, and I finally went back to school. My grandparents on my mother's side finally realized that none of the three of us were halfway competent enough to plan the funeral so they took over. It was good to not have another thing to worry about, especially when father's awareness came back with more hate than ever before.<p>

It had always been this way, that I directed shit inward and he projected the fuck out of it.

"Go fix the fucking bathroom light," he grumbled at me one day after school a few weeks later.

I had the stove on and was stirring a pot of canned soup. Scott was the only one with enough time or money to get groceries so we were left with cupboards that looked like a survival bunker. "I will," I promised, a bit distractedly.

"Now."

"This is almost done."

"I'm not going to fucking say it again."

I did my very best not to sigh (that would just piss him off) or roll my eyes (that would be worse) as I turned off the heat. Lukewarm was better than room-temperature, I supposed. All of this stuff came pre-cooked anyway.

"You aren't good for shit," I heard him murmur as I knelt down at one of the lower cabinets to look for replacement light bulbs. He still got himself a bowl of generic brand minestrone soup. What, did he think it just poofed there magically?

He wasn't a stupid person. He was fluent in two languages and used to run finances for a corporation. One that, apparently, had only been a side project for Francis's father, if my hunches were correct and the smug bastard was still as wealthy as he seemed. I grabbed the last remaining bulb from a 4-pack and left the empty package in the cabinet because no one else was going to do any of this and if I was fucking someone over later it would only be myself.

Father had stopped commenting on the skinny jeans, at least. I wore them more often now, even if they were getting a little small, and if he noticed he didn't say anything. I imagined fashion policing wasn't high on his priority list. I didn't have a huge amount of money from my drugstore job but it was probably enough to help Scott out with some bills and food. I didn't even know how much Scott made.

I switched out the dead light in the bathroom and then wandered back out to get a bowl of soup. Father had started actually sitting in the living room instead of staying in his bedroom all day, so that was probably a step up. He and Scott were taking up the two arms of the sofa so I stayed in the kitchen, standing and eating over the counter. The island made a good enough table and I could still see the distorted side of the TV.

I'd been mulling something over anyway, and I still wasn't sure what I wanted to do about it. Francis had been appalled (justly, I suppose) that I hadn't told him about my mother for more than a week. I told him not to bother but he'd immediately decided that he was going to come up to London to see me.

I couldn't dissuade him and I couldn't let him see our house, especially as it had been getting. It was unbelievably messy and smelled like enough smoke to choke a horse. I also didn't want Francis anywhere within a billion light-years of my father. There was very little way to actually stop him from coming, so I had to figure out something else.

The funeral hadn't been very flashy, and it didn't feel like we were living in so much limbo anymore. I'd run down to the library on a particularly bad evening so I could talk to Francis, and through some tears I was surprised had finally decided to show up I had told him pretty much everything in a particularly emotional chat.

Knowing Francis's father it would only be a matter of days before they were both up here and ready to console the shit out of me. That would probably continue for as long as it took for the infamous Bonnefoy narcissism to kick in. That might actually be more welcome, if I thought about it. I didn't want to hear about how terrible I had it, because I thought about _that_ all the time. Practically steeped in my own self-pity.

The last time I had actually seen Francis had been colored by my own stress and awkwardness around Jeanne, and I definitely wanted to make that up. Maybe they wouldn't ask to come see my house. Maybe we could just stay downtown or something and let their metropolitan busybody selves take the wheel.

I needed to talk to Francis again. Get everything sorted out.

* * *

><p>For the majority of my life I'd done a pretty bang up job of putting in the least amount of effort possible into school and forgetting that it existed when I wasn't there. It wasn't like there was somewhere else that was more interesting—I just never really saw the point beyond showing up and making sure I didn't fail.<p>

The Tuesday morning a month after mother died was shaping up to be exactly the same as every single other Tuesday before it. I had done just enough of my homework not to draw any attention to myself and ate with some people I could stand. I had some casual friends, no really deep, close best friends (would that be Francis?). I didn't care much.

But there's nothing that will break your autopilot more than someone much larger than you jumping out of a broom closet and tackling you.

"Gotcha, you entitled asshole!"

I didn't really _scream _so much as I make a very loud, high-pitched "oof" sound. Something hit my nose and pain blossomed behind my eyes. The boy caught me before I hit the ground, pulling me up to face him. I didn't have time to react, really, so all I managed to do was bring my hands up to my face.

"You are so dead, and you don't even—" the boy stopped mid-word and stared back at me with his eyes wide and his mouth open.

"What in the hell?" I snapped.

He instantly let me go and stepped back a lot, hands up and an embarrassed, cheesy smile replacing whatever fiery look had been splashed across his face before. "Oh, man, I am so sorry. I completely thought you were someone else."

He had dark hair and skin, the archetype of Mediterranean. The majority of the student body was pale and pasty (myself included) so it was a bit of a change. He was taller than me by a considerable amount and he looked a lot older.

"So you thought it would be a good idea to attack me?" I felt a little bit of wet on my upper lip. Shit.

He laughed a bit and scratched at his jaw. "Yeah, well, there's this one kid who owes me some money. I figured I'd psyche him out a little. Oh man, that makes me sound kind of like a mob boss, huh? I mean, I already asked nicely a couple of times. In retrospect it sounds kind of stupid."

"Not just in retrospect, believe me."

"Hey, whatever works, right?" he shrugged as he extended a hand. "I'm Antonio. You hurt anywhere?"

I regarded his hand before glaring up at him and taking my hands away to reveal a lightly bloody nose. "Arthur. I'm mostly in one piece."

"Oh, shit," he breathed, leaning in a little to examine my nose. I turned away from him and pinched my nose shut. "Hold on."

Antonio disappeared around the corner of the hallway and I stood there for a few seconds, feeling stupid. For some reason I waited until he got back with a handful of toilet paper. He offered it to me and I took it, pressing it delicately to the bottom of my nose. "Thanks."

"Least I could do. Like literal least. I didn't mean to actually clock you like that, hah."

"I'm sure you didn't. I'll survive."

Antonio looked at my nose like he was pretending he knew how to tell if it were okay or not. "Hey, why don't I make it up to you, huh?"

I eyed him a bit warily.

"Wanna come eat with me? I'm going out with some friends to get some real food. I'm sure they'd be happy to have you along. I'll pay."

"Bribery only gets you so far," I commented snidely. "And isn't there something about 'no such thing as a free meal'?" This wasn't a thing that just happened. Nobody just ran into you in a hall and then took you out to lunch. This wasn't a movie. What was his angle?

"You've already paid for it," Antonio joked. His demeanor was surprisingly warm despite my obvious bitterness (really just a put-on, of course. I was more embarrassed than angry). "Come on. You get food, I get a clear conscience, and from the vibes I'm getting off you Lovi'll have a great new sparring partner."

I was so ready to say no, but something made me reconsider. I didn't know what exactly it was. Okay, maybe I had some ideas, but I squashed them behind a thick wall of _nope_ in my head. Over the past year or so the _nope _wall had gotten some considerable use, so I was prepared.

"Fine," I smirked a little. "Because I'm generous."

Antonio smiled, only partially knowing. I wondered how much older he was. He had to be at least 18. A very adult-looking 18, in all the best ways. I was fresh out of a voice change and was waiting for my growth spurt, if it was even planning on coming. That was more ammunition for the _nope nope nope_.

"Cool. You ever skipped out on class for some fine dining before?"

"No." I hid the smile threatening to break out. My nose wasn't bleeding anymore, so I wiped down my lip a little and then balled the red-tinged tissues in my hand.

"Looks like it's time for you to live a little. How old are you?"

And there it was. Not that I looked any older than I actually was, but there was still something of a defeat in the "fourteen and a half" I answered with. Antonio didn't seem surprised.

"Eh, Feliciano's only fifteen, I think. You won't be the baby by much."

He was talking like this was going to be a regular thing. "Free food, clear conscience, out," I reminded him.

"You never know," and then he winked.

I was getting some extreme Francis flashbacks. It wasn't unpleasant. I guessed I was more tired of my day-to-day drudge-fest than I'd previous assumed.

* * *

><p>I understood why my chilliness hadn't fazed Antonio when I met Lovino Vargas, one of Antonio's lunchtime entourage. If I was icy he was the summit of Mount Everest, with a shorter fuse and more profanity than a 90s rapper. He was waiting for Antonio outside the back of the school building with his younger brother when we arrived.<p>

I was greeted with an unpleasant, "Who's this asshole?"

"Hey, kids. Arthur will be joining us today. I mistook him for Lucas and nearly broke his nose, hah."

"Were you hiding in the fucking closet again?" Lovino snapped. "Are you stupid or were you just not awake the first three times?"

Ooh. "You cut me to the core, Lovi," Antonio lamented with drama Francis would envy. "And I'm probably just stupid."

"Pfft—'probably', huh?"

Lovino's brother's eyes widened and he bonked Lovino with his hip. "Be niiiice," he whined. Then, to me, "I would say he isn't always like that but he is, so sorry in advance. I'm Feliciano."

He was, from what I could see, the antithesis of his brother, full of bubbles and smiles. It was apparently usually just the three of them, and according to Antonio they hadn't been to class after lunch in years. I wasn't sure if I believed that, but I liked that little thrill of not being where I was supposed to be.

The Vargas brothers were surprisingly quick to act like I always hung out with them, in a weird way. One of them was almost always talking, so there was no time for awkwardness. It felt strange that we could just sort of walk out of school and no one even noticed, but I didn't question it. My nose was still tender.

We passed by some perfectly good restaurants and I began to get a bit suspicious. Feliciano was wearing a backpack, which was kind of weird if we were just going to eat. Had I misread something? They seemed perfectly sincere, but for all I knew Feliciano was just putting on an act and he was like some assassin or something.

My suspicions only grew when we finally stopped in front of a small apartment building and Lovino had the key to get inside. I didn't say anything, mostly because of my terminal fear of being seen as an idiot, but I was all ready to bolt out of there if need be. I trusted that Antonio probably wouldn't try to kill me. Unless, of course, he'd been lying about the other guy he'd been stalking in the hall and I was the hit all along.

Suspicious.

The flat we were headed to was up two floors. I felt Antonio watching me out of the corner of his eye. "We're here," he announced to me.

"This isn't the standard definition of 'going out to eat,'" I mused testily.

"Hah, well, yeah. I may have lied a little bit about that part," he shrugged. "It's easier to say."

"As long as you're not planning on mugging me," I shrugged back.

"Jesus, you found a feisty one," Lovino grumbled. "About time. How hard did he punch you, kid?"

"My nose is still on my face," I replied.

"Good. We have to deal with enough shit without a lawsuit."

We stepped into the flat and Feliciano skipped off somewhere. I guessed this was their place, then. Did the three of them live together? It was a tight little place, with narrow halls and lots of pictures all over the place. As I looked around, however, I noticed that none of the pictures were of Lovino or Feliciano. In fact, the majority of the ones I saw in the entrance looked like paintings, expensive ones.

The hall opened into a large main room with some colorful modern furniture and white floor. It didn't look like people actually lived there, to be honest. It was more like it was set up for an open house. I decided against joking about buying the place.

"You, eyebrow boy, can you cook?" Lovino leaned against a doorframe.

"Eyebrow boy?" I sputtered. "And no, not really."

"Perfect. Stay with Tonio out here. Don't come into the kitchen. Not even if you're on fire. Take that shit outside."

He was just a pocket full of sunshine. "Got it."

"C'mere," Antonio called, already having seated himself in one of the red, hard-looking chairs. "Tell me about your life."

"What was this about you paying?"

"Hey, hey, I'm _double_ paying. One for the groceries and one for not telling Lovi about you beforehand."

I shifted a little. "I can go."

"Oh, no no no," Antonio laughed. "Don't get me wrong. He's always happy to hear how great his cooking is from anyone besides me. He's always yelling at me to bring someone new around. This is mutually beneficial, trust me. He's just a little crabby."

"I've certainly heard understatements, but that one might take the cake."

Antonio gave me a weird little smile. "He's sweet underneath the spiky shell. Like a…chocolate scorpion."

Appetizing. "So do you guys do this every day? Like people think you're off to go shoot up or something but you're actually just having a hearty, home-cooked meal?" I drawled.

"Something like that," he smile a little to himself. "It started with Lovino, really. One day he got sick and tired of the canteen food so he just popped off home to make his own lunch. Feli and I thought he might have finally just given up and robbed a bank or something. But no, here he was. Eating pesto while we were getting ready to file a missing person report."

"I get the feeling he could take care of himself."

"That's just a front," Antonio suddenly grinned. "Don't tell him I told you this, especially since you've just met him, but he's about as tough as a jelly doughnut. His main advantage is his ability to talk a big game."

I smiled despite myself. "I'll keep that in mind."

This whole situation was weird, definitely, but I'd decided once we'd hit the street that I was just going to roll with it. Antonio hadn't shown any motives beyond just being terminally friendly, so I figured I could take most of this at face value.

"You often pick up strays?"

"Every once in a while," Antonio mused. "Sometimes Lucas, the guy I mistook you for, sometimes Feliciano's girlfriends. You aren't the first unsuspecting rando, don't worry. I like to think of us as the Carriedo-Vargas co-op; anyone can join. We just need better advertisement."

"_Vargas-Carriedo, you fuckin' sneaky bastard!"_

From the kitchen. Antonio squeezed his eyes shut. "God, these walls are thin." Then he yelled something back in what I was pretty sure was Spanish. It caught me off guard. I'd noticed his slight accent but I hadn't really put together where it was from.

I sat back a little more in my chair, making myself comfortable. I didn't feel so much like I was intruding anymore, regardless of whether what Antonio was saying was true. He was a very calming person, all soft eyes and smiles. I had been trying to figure out if I'd seen him before. I was sure I must have, somewhere. The school was big enough that I might not have really encountered him before.

I guess I had been unconsciously examining his face, because it took me a second to realize I was staring at his ears. Two small studs were perched in each earlobe. I wondered what it would be like to have my ears pierced, and what I would even do with them if they were.

I decided to ask. "How long have you…" I trailed off and pulled on my own ear a little. I felt kind of stupid for it.

"Oh," Antonio grunted, looking lost for a second. "_Oh_. First hole when I was a baby. Second maybe three years ago." He got a sly slant to his mouth. "You interested?"

I froze with a strange look on my face for a second before I realized what he actually meant. "Mm. Dunno. Could be…fun. My father'd kill me in my sleep, though."

"Ah, you got one of those, huh? _But_, you're like fourteen, right? Perfect time to start your punk rebellious phase, isn't it?"

I made a show of looking down at my striped polo and running shoes (only one pair removed from the kind that lit up). "Why punk?"

"It's a pretty rebellious genre. I don't actually know. You could get a tattoo."

"Naturally. I've been eyeing dolphin-themed tramp stamps as of late."

Antonio looked like he was examining me pretty closely. "Eyeliner," he said, snapping his fingers. "That'll piss daddy off."

"That's exactly what I've been trying to avoid for the better part of two years," I snorted.

"That's why it's the perfect time," Antonio said, shaking his head. "Don't listen to me, though. I'm a bad influence. Corrupting impressionable children is practically my favorite thing."

I mulled it over for a few seconds. "Would you know where to find someone who could pierce my ears?"

Antonio got this slow-growing smile that turned into a grin. "Oh yeah. That's the easy part."

"Lovely."

"Okay, assholes! Soup's on!"

Lovino and Feliciano came out of the kitchen with plates. Their dishes were pretty fancy and had this little gold trim around the edges. There was some kind of white pasta set up with garnish and everything. It looked like something you'd find in a restaurant. I gawked.

They set the dishes down on the coffee table and pulled up chairs of their own. Feliciano scooted over to sit next to me, looking at me expectantly as he put a fork and knife in front of me. "Enjoy!"

"This is…what is it?"

"Fuckin' food. Now take a bite and bow down to the culinary masters," Lovino quipped smugly.

I picked up the fork and glanced up at Antonio. This was such an odd scenario, with this pretty fantastic looking food set up on a coffee table. I felt like we should be doing something fancier, to be honest. The sprig of parsley tucked neatly against the plate was telling me so.

It was as delicious as advertised, and I made sure to tell Lovino as much. Feliciano was practically vibrating.

"Yeah, yeah, nothing I haven't heard before."

I looked around for a clock but couldn't find one anywhere on the walls. I didn't have a watch, even though I'd been thinking of getting one. "What time is it?"

Antonio furrowed his brow a little and said something that kind of blew my mind.

"Does it matter?"

We were on our own schedule. If these guys got away with this almost every day then there must not be many repercussions for missing class. We didn't have anywhere to be. It was a completely foreign idea to me, but I kind of liked it.

We got back to school about half an hour later and when I got to my next class all I had to do was tell the teacher I'd been feeling ill. She didn't ask any questions and I spent the rest of the day marveling at my serendipity.

The same happened the next day, when Feliciano found me in the hall in the morning and asked if I'd like to join them again. And again. And again. It became something of a habit.

* * *

><p>I sat in the library, my knee bouncing absently. Francis wasn't exactly the type to hover around the computer but he was online enough for us to talk much more easily than our old letters. He was planning on coming up that coming weekend; it was the first time he'd been free enough to head up since the thing with mother.<p>

_ajkirkland: So what time should I come get you?_

_bonneFWAH: the train should arrive about 11. dont worry, i can wait for you ;3D_

_ajkirkland: Is that a moustache?_

_bonneFWAH: it is possible_

_ajkirkland: You're stupid._

_bonneFWAH: ;3(_

_ajkirkland: Anyway, I trust you've already found a hotel._

_bonneFWAH: of course. father is loath to impose_

_ajkirkland: OK. I'll be there. _

_bonneFWAH: i shall count the seconds, love 3_

I cleared my throat and glanced around to make sure that no one in the empty library could see the screen. This was the kind of thing Francis said a lot, but it still caught me off guard every time. I smiled a little to myself, though I'd never admit it to him, and typed a response.

_ajkirkland: Why do I even miss you?_

_bonneFWAH: how could you not?_

_ajkirkland: …no idea._

_bonneFWAH: oh, my heart! i should save that forever and frame it on my wall. the day arthur kirkland finally admitted he misses little old moi 333_

_ajkirkland: Go ahead. It's the only way you'll ever see it again. Anyway, I have to go in just a second. _

_bonneFWAH: off to meet your secret lover?_

_ajkirkland: No. I'm off to go give my father a hernia._

_bonneFWAH: ah, good. i was afraid i might have to kill someone to win your hand_

I rolled my eyes so hard I hoped he could see it from France. Then I typed a quick goodbye, complete with all the required profanity, and closed the browser. I was never sure whether I should shut the computer down as well, but I hadn't so far and no one had called me out on it so I guessed I could just leave it.

I actually did have somewhere to go, and it was probably going to make my father furious when (if?) he found out.

As I pushed past the heavy library door I saw Antonio shuffling around outside. I had come to learn through a series of t-shirts of varying tightness that he was actually quite muscular. He looked up and waved a little when he saw me.

"About time," he joked, even though we both knew he was a few minutes early. "You ready?"

"Probably."

I was going to go get my ears pierced, because Antonio was the best kind of bad influence.

* * *

><p><em>Now things are really going to start picking up, plot-wise, mostly thanks to our favorite conquistador.<em>

_As always, if you see any typos or other mistakes let me know and I'll make you FAMOUS._


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